Miller, Knees & Dye, which owned all the pine lands in the township,
and, indeed, in nearly all the county. He complimented the assessor
in his softest manner, he complimented the board down from Caxton to
Severn, through Holt, and then he complimented them up again from Severn
to Caxton. He mentioned New Antrim and brought in a deft reference to
the shamrock and the old sod, and then—he suddenly caught the eye of
Eric Halstrom burning at him above the heads of the crowd. For a single
instant he seemed trying to pull himself together, and then he went on
with his pleasant drawl:
“As representing the largest taxpayers in Middlebrook,” he said, “I am
deeply interested in its welfare. We pay our taxes gladly, knowing that
they have been honestly levied and that they will be honestly collected—”
At this Eric Halstrom came shouldering nearer, with the shoemaker close
behind him.
“It’s not so!” Eric gasped, excitedly. “I tell you it’s not so. He’s the
man who’s caused all the trouble.”
“I was not aware,” put in Billy Ketchum, in his smoothest voice, “that
you allowed your meetings to be broken up by a brawling—”
His last words were drowned in shouts, and it was some moments before Mr.
Caxton, pounding on the table, could restore peace.
Calvin Donohue whispered in the chairman’s ear, and Mr. Caxton said aloud
to Eric, “We’ll hear what you have to say right away.”
The shoemaker pushed Eric forward eagerly. The boy stood up before the
crowd, blushing and stammering. His big hands fumbled in his pockets and
his tongue refused to stir. He had not been particularly afraid to face
the assembled forces of New Antrim in the road, but he was afraid to make
a speech.
“I—I wanted to—explain about the taxes,” he stammered.
“So I suppose,” was Mr. Caxton’s cool reply.
Eric pulled a piece of chalk out of his pocket and looked round.
“I—I’ve got to have something to write on,” he said, at which the New
Antrimites shouted with laughter.
If it had not been for the wise old shoemaker at that moment, Eric would
have been lost, laughed to defeat. Nothing will floor a speaker more
quickly than the wit of an Irish audience. But the shoemaker spoke in
Norwegian. Eric turned quickly; he was only a step from the door. There,
outside in the sand, stood the old iron kettle. He stooped, picked it up,
and set it on a bench, which the shoemaker had swung into place. It was
all done so swiftly that New Antrim forgot its fun in its astonishment.
And when Eric drew a big white square on the kettle with his chalk, a
voice rose hoarsely from the back of the room:
“Well, I’ll be jiggered!”
At that all the Irishmen laughed, and then sat still again, out of
respect, being “jiggered.”
Eric divided the white square into many smaller squares. In one corner he
drew a number of crosses; in the opposite corner he did the same. One of
these groups of crosses he labeled T.
“That is the Thingvalla settlement,” he said, “and this—is New Antrim.”
Then he swept his hand between the two and glanced at Billy Ketchum. “And
all this in here is the pine owned by Miller, Knees & Dye.”
The shoemaker whispered in his ear, and he turned to the chairman, and
said in a sterner voice: “I want to show who is to blame for all this
trouble between the settlements.”
“We are not dealing with quarrels,” was the response. “We are here to
equalize taxes.”
“That’s it, that’s what I want to do. I want to show that the taxes
aren’t equal.”
Then he fumbled in his pocket and drew out a much-folded paper. With
this to support him, he forgot all about himself, and talked rapidly and
earnestly.
He told how he had figured up all the land owned by the Scandinavians of
Thingvalla, and all that owned by New Antrim, and all that owned by the
lumber company.
“Thingvalla has two thousand two hundred and forty acres in farms; New
Antrim has two thousand nine hundred and twenty acres,” he explained,
“while the lumber company has more than twelve thousand acres of pine.
Thingvalla is assessed at an average of four dollars and sixty cents an
acre; New Antrim is assessed at four dollars and fifteen cents an acre—a
little less, but not enough to count. But here is this lumber company
assessed for only one dollar and ninety cents an acre—”
Here Billy Ketchum sprang excitedly to his feet. “But this is wild
land—not a foot of it is cultivated. I tell you such a comparison is
unfair—”
“Yes, but your pine is worth more to the acre than our farms with all our
crops and buildings on them.”
“I tell you—”
“I know!” broke in Eric, excitedly. “I tell you, I know! Look here—”
He drew from his pocket a pack of little strips of paper, each with a
section map at the top, upon which different “forties” of land were
checked up in red and blue pencil.
He turned again to the table and marked out a square about midway between
the settlements.
“Here’s section ten, township forty, range twelve. Last fall I was hired
to go over this land with the company’s explorer, and estimate the
pine. We travelled together for two months, counted all the trees, and
estimated the number of feet of lumber they would make. That pine as it
stands is worth from four dollars to six dollars a thousand feet, and
some of the single forties have more than two hundred thousand feet of
timber on them. That makes a cash value of from eight hundred dollars to
twelve hundred dollars—or twenty dollars to thirty dollars an acre—and
that’s more than the best improved farm in this county is worth—”
“I tell you—” roared little Billy Ketchum, wild with excitement.
“And you know it,” added Eric. “Here are these slips, which will prove
just what I say. They are the company’s own valuation of its property.
You can see for yourselves that our farms are assessed for more than
twice as much as this pine land, although it is worth five or six times
as much. And that will show you who is dodging taxes. Billy Ketchum says
that he represents the biggest taxpayers in the township, and that he is
well contented with the assessment. Of course he is contented, but he
is wrong about representing the largest taxpayers. As the assessments
now are, we represent the biggest taxpayers—and we are not contented,
for we pay ten times the taxes that we should. All I ask is that the
assessments be fair, and Thingvalla and New Antrim will not quarrel.”
Billy Ketchum, purple of face, tried in vain to make himself heard,
but the Irishmen of New Antrim drowned him out of the discussion. The
explorer’s slips were passed back and forth and referred to the diagram
on the iron kettle, and for a few moments pandemonium reigned.
“What’s more,” shouted Eric, in the flush of victory, “I can prove that
Billy Ketchum is at the bottom of this quarrel!”
There was silence again.
“If it hadn’t been for him, we’d have been good friends to-day. He’s kept
us enemies so that we couldn’t get together and assess the pine lands as
they ought to be assessed.”
Ketchum sprang to his feet.
“It’s not so!” he shouted. “We’ve been perfectly fair to every one. Why
should I mix up in neighborhood quarrels?”
He poured out an impassioned speech, the drawl all gone, and the words
crowding so fast that he could hardly utter them plainly. He called the
Irishmen “Billy” and “Calvin” and “Pete” familiarly, and spoke of their
warm friendship, but somehow they did not rouse to enthusiasm as he had
expected. They were thinking.
Presently Eric made himself heard again.
“Who left that warning in the Thingvalla road last night?” he asked,
facing Ketchum.
“Who? How should I know?”
At this, New Antrim leaned forward to a man with curiosity. Eric drew out
the warning and told where he had found it. Then he passed it gravely to
Mr. Caxton.
“Billy Ketchum left that in the road,” said Eric. “He did it to keep us
away from the meeting. He tried to make us think that the New Antrim
settlement was against us. He had found out that I knew the real value of
those pine lands.”
Again Billy hopped up. “I dare him to prove it, Mr. Chairman! I didn’t
come here to be insulted. I tell you—I dare him to prove it!”
“Well, I will,” said Eric, coolly.
At that the shoemaker stepped round behind the table and picked up a
long, slender, paper-covered roll and handed it to Eric. Eric held it up,
and pointed to Ketchum’s name written upon it, for it was a roll of maps.
Ketchum rushed at Eric and tried to grasp his property, but Eric brushed
him aside.
Then he unrolled the manila covering of the maps a few inches and held it
up. One corner was torn off. He took the warning notice from Mr. Caxton’s
desk and held it in the place of this torn corner. It fitted perfectly.
“My father happened to see this when he came in,” explained Eric. “What
more proof do you want?”
For a moment the room was still. Then the same deep voice which had
spoken once before burst out:
“I’ll be jiggered!”
Calvin Donohue turned to Billy Ketchum and said, none too pleasantly:
“You get out! We can manage our own affairs!”
Callahan suggested taking him out triumphantly in the iron kettle, but
Billy disappeared with such haste they could not catch him.
Then the whole assembly took up seriously the problem of assessments,
and before the day was out, the township of Middlebrook was equalized,
and the taxes of the settlers, New Antrim and Thingvalla alike, were cut
down to their just proportions, no more, no less, and the pine lands were
assessed strictly in accordance with Eric’s estimate slips.
THE CURE OF FEAR
By Norman Duncan
Like many another snug little harbor on the northeast coast of
Newfoundland, Ruddy Cove is confronted by the sea and flanked by a vast
wilderness; so all the folk take their living from the sea, as their
forebears have done for generations.
It takes courage and a will for work to sweeten the hard life of those
parts, which otherwise would be filled with dread and an intolerable
weariness; and Donald North, of Ruddy Cove, was brave enough till he was
eight years old. But after that season he was so timid that he shrank
from the edge of the cliffs when the breakers were beating the rocks
below, and he trembled when the punt heeled to a gust.
Now he was a fisherman’s son, and in the course of things must himself
be a paddle-punt fisherman; thus the mishap which gave him that great
fear of the sea cast a dark shadow over him.
“Billy,” he said to young Topsail, on the unfortunate day, “leave us
go sail my new fore-an’-after. I’ve rigged her out with a grand new
mizzens’l.”
“Sure, b’y!” said Billy. “Where to?”
“Uncle George’s wharf-head. ’Tis a place as good as any.”
Off Uncle George’s wharf-head the water was deep—deeper than Donald could
fathom at low tide—and it was cold, and covered a rocky bottom, upon
which a multitude of starfish and prickly sea-eggs lay in clusters. It
was green, smooth and clear, too; sight carried straight down to where
the purple-shelled mussels gripped the rocks.
The tide had fallen somewhat and was still on the ebb. Donald found it
a long reach from the wharf to the water. By and by, as the water ran
out of the harbor, the most he could do was to touch the mast tip of the
miniature ship with his fingers. Then a little gust of wind crept round
the corner of the wharf, rippling the water as it came near. It caught
the sails of the new fore-and-after, and the little craft fell over on
another tack and shot away.
“Here, you!” Donald cried. “Come back, will you?”
He reached for the mast. His fingers touched it, but the boat escaped
before they closed. He laughed, hitched nearer to the edge of the wharf,
and reached again. The wind had failed; the little boat was tossing in
the ripples, below and just beyond his grasp.
“I can’t cotch her!” he called to Billy Topsail, who was back near the
net-horse, looking for squids.
Billy looked up, and laughed to see Donald’s awkward position—to see him
hanging over the water, red-faced and straining. Donald laughed, too. At
once he lost his balance and fell forward.
This was in the days before he could swim, so he floundered about in
the water, beating it wildly, to bring himself to the surface. When he
came up, Billy Topsail was leaning over to catch him. Donald lifted his
arm. His fingers touched Billy’s, that was all—just touched them. Then
he sank; and when he came up again, and again lifted his arm, there
was half a foot of space between his hand and Billy’s. Some measure of
self-possession returned. He took a long breath, and let himself sink.
Down he went, weighted by his heavy boots.
Those moments were full of the terror of which, later, he could not rid
himself. There seemed to be no end to the depth of the water in that
place. But when his feet touched bottom, he was still deliberate in all
that he did.
For a moment he let them rest on the rock. Then he gave himself a strong
upward push. It needed but little to bring him within reach of Billy
Topsail’s hand. He shot out of the water and caught that hand. Soon
afterward he was safe on the wharf.
“Sure, mum, I thought I was drownded that time!” he said to his mother,
that night. “When I were goin’ down the last time I thought I’d never
see you again.”
“But you wasn’t drownded, b’y,” said his mother, softly.
“But I might ha’ been,” said he.
There was the rub. He was haunted by what might have happened. Soon he
became a timid, shrinking lad, utterly lacking confidence in the strength
of his arms and his skill with an oar and a sail; and after that came to
pass, his life was hard. He was afraid to go out to the fishing-grounds,
where he must go every day with his father to keep the head of the punt
up to the wind, and he had a great fear of the wind and the fog and the
breakers.
But he was not a coward. On the contrary, although he was circumspect in
all his dealings with the sea, he never failed in his duty.
* * * * *
In Ruddy Cove all the men put out their salmon-nets when the ice breaks
up and drifts away southward, for the spring run of salmon then begins.
These nets are laid in the sea, at right angles to the rocks and
extending out from them; they are set alongshore, it may be a mile or
two, from the narrow passage to the harbor. The outer end is buoyed and
anchored, and the other is lashed to an iron stake which is driven deep
into some crevice of the rock.
When belated icebergs hang offshore a watch must be kept on the nets,
lest they be torn away or ground to pulp by the ice.
“The wind’s haulin’ round a bit, b’y,” said Donald’s father, one day in
spring, when the lad was twelve years old. “I think ’twill freshen and
blow inshore afore night.”
“They’s a scattered pan of ice out there, father,” said Donald, “and
three small bergs.”
“Iss, b’y, I knows,” said North. “’Tis that I’m afeared of. If the wind
changes a bit more, ’twill jam the ice agin the rocks. Does you think the
net is safe?”
It was quite evident that the net was in danger, but since Donald had
first shown signs of fearing the sea, Job North had not compelled him
to go out upon perilous undertakings. He had fallen into the habit of
leaving the boy to choose his own course, believing that in time he would
master himself.
“I think, zur,” said Donald, steadily, “the net should come in.”
“’Twould be wise,” said North. “Come, b’y, we’ll go fetch it.”
So they put forth in the punt. There was a fair, fresh wind, and with
this filling the little brown sail, they were soon driven out from the
quiet water of the harbor to the heaving sea itself. Great swells rolled
in from the open and broke furiously against the coast rocks.
The punt ran alongshore for two miles keeping well away from the
breakers. When at last she came to that point where Job North’s net was
set, Donald furled the sail and his father took up the oars.
“’Twill be a bit hard to land,” he said.
Therein lay the danger. There is no beach along that coast. The rocks
rise abruptly from the sea—here, sheer and towering; there, low and
broken.
When there is a sea running, the swells roll in and break against these
rocks; and when the breakers catch a punt, they are certain to smash it
to splinters.
The iron stake to which Job North’s net was lashed was fixed in a low
ledge, upon which some hardy shrubs had taken root. The waves were
casting themselves against the rocks below, breaking with a great roar
and flinging spray over the ledge.
“’Twill be a bit hard,” North said again.
But the salmon-fishers have a way of landing under such conditions. When
their nets are in danger they do not hesitate. The man at the oars lets
the boat drift with the breakers stern foremost toward the rocks. His
mate leaps from the stern seat to the ledge. Then the other pulls the
boat out of danger before the wave curls and breaks. It is the only way.
But sometimes the man in the stem miscalculates—leaps too soon, stumbles,
leaps short. He falls back, and is almost inevitably drowned. Sometimes,
too, the current of the wave is too strong for the man at the oars; his
punt is swept in, pull as hard as he may, and he is overwhelmed with her.
Donald knew all this. He had lived in dread of the time when he must
first make that leap.
“The ice is comin’ in, b’y,” said North. “’Twill scrape these here rocks,
certain sure. Does you think you’re strong enough to take the oars an’
let me go ashore?”
“No, zur,” said Donald.
“You never leaped afore, did you?”
“No, zur.”
“Will you try it now, b’y?” said North quietly.
“Iss, zur,” Donald said, faintly.
“Get ready, then,” said North.
With a stroke or two of the oars Job swung the stem of the boat to the
rocks. He kept her hanging in this position until the water fell back and
gathered in a new wave; then he lifted his oars. Donald was crouched on
the stern seat, waiting for the moment to rise and spring.
The boat moved in, running on the crest of the wave which would a moment
later break against the rock. Donald stood up, and fixed his eye on
the ledge. He was afraid; all the strength and courage he had seemed
to desert him. The punt was now almost on a level with the ledge. The
wave was about to curl and fall. It was the precise moment when he must
leap—that instant, too, when the punt must be pulled out of the grip of
the breaker, if at all.
He felt of a sudden that he _must_ do this thing. Therefore why not do
it courageously? He leaped; but this new courage had not come in time.
He made the ledge, but he fell an inch short of a firm footing. So for
a moment he tottered, between falling forward and falling back. Then he
caught the branch of an overhanging shrub, and with this saved himself.
When he turned, Job had the punt in safety; but he was breathing hard, as
if the strain had been great.
“’Twas not so hard, was it, b’y?” said Job.
“No, zur,” said Donald.
Donald cast the net line loose from its mooring, and saw that it was
all clear. His father let the punt sweep in again. It is much easier to
leap from a solid rock than from a boat, so Donald jumped in without
difficulty. Then they rowed out to the buoy and hauled the great,
dripping net over the side.
It was well they went out, for before morning the ice had drifted over
the place where the net had been. More than that, Donald North profited
by his experience. He perceived that if perils must be encountered, they
are best met with a clear head and an unflinching heart.
That night, when he thought it over, he was comforted.
* * * * *
In the gales and high seas of the summer following, and in the blinding
snowstorms and bitter cold of the winter, Donald North grew in fine
readiness to face peril at the call of duty. All that he had gained was
put to the test in the next spring, when the floating ice, which drifts
out of the north in the spring break-up, was driven by the wind against
the coast.
Job North, with Alexander Bludd and Bill Stevens, went out on the ice to
hunt seal, and the hunt led them ten miles offshore. In the afternoon of
that day the wind gave some sign of changing to the west, and at dusk it
was blowing half a gale offshore. When the wind blows offshore it sweeps
all this wandering ice out to sea, and disperses the whole pack.
“Go see if your father’s comin’, b’y,” said Donald’s mother. “I’m
gettin’ terrible nervous about the ice.”
Donald took his gaff—a long pole of the light, tough dogwood, two inches
thick and shod with iron—and set out. It was growing dark, and the wind,
rising still, was blowing in strong, cold gusts. It began to snow while
he was yet on the ice of the harbor, half a mile away from the pans and
clumpers which the wind of the day before had crowded against the coast.
When he came to the “standing ice,”—the stationary rim of ice which is
frozen to the coast,—the wind was thickly charged with snow. What with
dusk and snow, he found it hard to keep to the right way. But he was
not afraid for himself; his only fear was that the wind would sweep the
ice-pack out to sea before his father reached the “standing edge.” In
that event, as he knew, Job North would be doomed.
Donald went out on the standing edge. Beyond lay a widening gap of water.
The pack had already begun to move out.
There was no sign of Job North’s party. The lad ran up and down,
hallooing as he ran; but for a time there was no answer to his call. Then
it seemed to him he heard a despairing hail, sounding far to the right,
whence he had come. Night had almost fallen, and the snow added to its
depth; but as he ran back, Donald could still see across the gap of water
to that great pan of ice, which, of all the pack, was nearest to the
standing edge. He perceived that the gap had considerably widened since
he had first observed it.
“Is that you, father?” he called.
“Iss, Donald!” came an answering hail from directly opposite. “Is there a
small pan of ice on your side?”
Donald searched up and down the edge for a detached cake large enough for
his purpose. Near at hand he came upon a thin, small pan, not more than
six feet square.
“Haste, b’y!” cried his father.
“They’s one here,” he called back, “but ’tis too small! Is there none
there?”
“No, b’y! Fetch that over!”
Here was a desperate need. If the lad was to meet it, he must act
instantly and fearlessly. He stepped out on the pan, and pushed off with
his gaff.
Using his gaff as a paddle—as these gaffs are constantly used in ferrying
by the Newfoundland fishermen—and helped by the wind, he soon ferried
himself to where Job North stood waiting with his companions.
“’Tis too small,” said Stevens. “’Twill not hold two.”
North looked dubiously at the pan. Alexander Bludd shook his head in
despair.
“Get back while you can, b’y,” said North. “Quick! We’re driftin’ fast.
The pan’s too small.”
“I think ’tis big enough for one man and me,” said Donald.
“Get aboard and try it, Alexander,” said Job.
Alexander Bludd stepped on. The pan tipped fearfully, and the water
ran over it; but when the weight of the man and the boy was properly
adjusted, it seemed capable of bearing them both across. They pushed off.
When Alexander moved to put his gaff in the water the pan tipped again.
Donald came near losing his footing. He moved nearer the edge, and the
pan came to a level. They paddled with all their strength, for the wind
was blowing against them, and there was need of haste if three passages
were to be made. Meanwhile the gap had grown so wide that the wind had
turned the ripples into waves, which washed over the pan as high as
Donald’s ankles.
But they came safe across. Bludd stepped quickly ashore, and Donald
pushed off. With the wind in his favor, he was soon once more at the
other side.
“Now, Bill,” said North, “your turn next.”
“I can’t do it, Job,” said Stevens. “Get aboard yourself. The lad can’t
come back again. We’re driftin’ out too fast. He’s your lad, an’ you’ve
the right to—”
“Iss, I can come back,” said Donald. “Come on, Bill! Quick!”
Stevens was a lighter man than Alexander Bludd, but the passage was
wider, and still widening, for the pack had gathered speed.
When Stevens was safely landed, he looked back.
A vast white shadow was all that he could see. Job North’s figure had
been merged with the night.
“Donald, b’y,” he said, “you got to go back for your father, but I’m fair
feared you’ll never—”
“Give me a push, Bill,” said Donald.
Stevens caught the end of the gaff and pushed the lad out.
“Good-by, Donald!” he said.
When the pan touched the other side, Job North stepped aboard without
a word. He was a heavy man. With his great body on the ice-cake, the
problem of return was enormously increased, as Donald had foreseen.
The pan was overweighted. Time and again it nearly shook itself free of
its bad load and rose to the surface.