SCUD.

It was the morning after my arrival. I had just come, jaded from

examination papers, agued with the incessant ring of orations, abhorrent

of the rustle of white tarlatans, distrustful of the future attitude of

trustees, and utterly wilted from the effect of a country academy

exhibition held in the heat of June in the torridest of Western towns. I

had never seen the ocean, and before my window the glorious old Atlantic

heaved solemnly. Its intermittent swash upon the rocks sent peace into

my soul. I found myself near enough even to throw something into the

water. The longing to communicate with this new friend, dreamed of for

so many inland years, overpowered me. A box of buttons was all I had,

and I leaned far out into the air, pungent with a mixture of fish and

kelp, and cast into the deep these feminine necessities, one by one.

Now a tiny disk of mother-of-pearl would glance on the float and bounce

off into a gray ripple; and then a bit of jet would clatter on the red

granite rocks, and be swallowed by a lapping wavelet that seemed to rise

on purpose for this strange offering. Too soon the box was emptied of

its contents; then there came a mad desire to throw cologne, shoes,

satchel, anything, everything, myself, from the second-story window into

this mysterious, beckoning, repelling Atlantic tide beneath me. Leaning

on the sill, with my whole soul absorbed in this new Nirvana, I was

suddenly and yet not unpleasantly aroused by a strident yell:

"Hellow, Scud! Wha'che got this mornin'?"

"Oh, no-thin', only twenty-six little 'uns, an' a couple bucket o'

bait."

The answer came back in a deep, orotund, sing-song voice. It was the

natural intoning of the man of the sea. Two boats shot from under a

rocky headland a few hundred yards before me to the left. One of the

boats made fast to some black corks that formed a huge rectangle in the

water, and two men began pulling in a net. The one in the other boat,

who answered to the name of Scud, stopped rowing for a moment, exchanged

a word or two, and laughed aloud, then cast a critical look at the sun's

altitude, and pulled lazily away. When he was at some distance, he

rested on his oars, and hilloaed with that penetrating sea cry:

"I hope you'll get two barr'l. I guess thar's 'nough to go all round."

That undulatory cadence is entirely lacking in landsmen's tones. Still

this was an extraordinarily joyous voice, as if the life of a fisherman

were a dream without a care or a struggle. But Scud and his queer, green

boat disappeared behind the jagged outline of the rocks, and I turned at

the sound of the first bell to dress for breakfast.

"Well, how do you like your room? I hope that the fishermen didn't wake

you up too early."

My cousin offered me some smoking flakes of fish, new to my limited

experience. This, he said, was inland hake, and was caught that morning

in Scud's trap. Now, although I was hitherto ignorant of this delicious

fish with its paradoxical cognomen, I felt that Scud and I were already

friends; and gravely informed my host that Scud had caught twenty-six

little ones that morning. This piece of information was immediately

greeted with impertinent hilarity.

"So Scud woke you up?" said my cousin. "He's always doing that. There

was one nervous boarder here. She threatened to have him arrested for

breaking the peace. But you might as well arrest a fog-whistle."

"Does he always get up as early in the morning?" I asked,

apprehensively. "He must be a very energetic person. Do tell me about

it. What are 'little 'uns'?"

I must confess to a degree of perplexity when the the whole family burst

into further roars of laughter at my simple question.

"Scud energetic? Why, he is the easiest, the slowest, the sleepiest, the

most lovable, good-natured fellow on the whole coast. He makes the

surest and perhaps the best living of any of the fishermen around here.

If he didn't get up early he wouldn't do even that. As it is, Salt does

most of the work. Salt is his oldest boy," explained my cousin.

"I am sure Scud needs all he can make," interrupted Mabel (she is my

cousin's wife), "with his dozen children and a wife to support, and only

one trap to do it on."

"For my part," interposed the oldest daughter, with a pert motion of her

head, "I am tired to death having to save clothes for that--You needn't

look so shocked, mamma. Yes, I am. It's always 'Take care of that

petticoat; Betty can use it;' or, 'That dress can be turned and made

over nicely for the twins.' I declare I don't get a new dress but the

whole Scud family troop over and inspect it, and criticise it, and

quarrel over it, and gloat over it the first day I wear it. I caught two

of their boys fighting over which of them should have Reginald's summer

ulster when he was done with it."

"I shall give it to Tommy," observed her mother, in an absent,

comfortable tone.

After breakfast my cousin rowed over to the station; the eldest two

children took their guest, a boy of about sixteen, out fishing; while I

eagerly accompanied Mabel across the rocks and fields to Scud's house--a

little rented hut, hidden and sheltered from the east winds behind a

huge barrack of a boarding-house.

How clear the day! How warm the sun! How hospitable this forbidding,

granite-clad North Shore! As I look back upon that memorable morning it

seemed as if the bay could never be ruffled by any but the tenderest

breezes, or its bright water reflect any but the dazzling glare of the

hottest sun. Clouds hovered over us, delicate and fleecy as the feathers

of the marabou, and white and curly as the feathers of the ostrich. They

radiated from a centre in translucent films, and shot out monstrous

ciliated fingers like a fan. Such a sky was never seen in my part of

the country, and I attributed this ravishing cloud phenomenon to the

peculiar influence of the sea, being too ignorant to notice that these

streamers shot out from the west. The stillness was intoxicating after

the scurry of the school-room. And now even the water made no ripples on

the beach. The sea was motionless, like a distilled elixir in a serrated

alembic.

We stopped before a low, pitch-roofed house that looked as if it

contained three rooms at most. The yard was piled up with wreckage and

drift-wood. Who ever heard of a fisherman buying kindling? Within the

gate four children were playing with twice as many cats and kittens.

They were all fighting like animals between themselves for a plateful of

scraps of fried fish. A baby would grab a piece from the plate, and

offer the remainder to a grave tabby, which in turn distributed it to

her offspring. Then the kittens and "humans" rolled and scratched, and

shrieked and scratched again.

"Keep yer mouths shet out there, or I'll be after ye with a stick!" This

maternal sentiment, spoken in a loud shrill voice, greeted us as we

stepped within the gate.

"It's I, Betty. I have brought you a little something, and a friend who

wants to see the children."

"Dear sakes! 'tain't you, is it?" The shrill voice was now modulated in

an entirely different tone. "Ain't I glad you've come! Step right in and

set down. No? Then I'll be out and see ye ez soon ez I've tended the

baby."

"Baby!" I gasped, looking at the four fighting infants at my feet, none

of whom looked over thirteen months. "Are these hers too?"

"These are the twins," answered Mabel, quite seriously. "They call them

'the twin.' These are the two sets, just a year apart. The baby was born

a month ago. The baby isn't named. Let me see: these are Bessie and

Maurie and Robbie and Susie."

"Why, I thought you knew better," protested the mother, in a grieved

voice. "Susie is in the house there. That's Bessie." She wiped her hands

on her apron, and thrust one of them out through a rent in the

mosquito-netted door. "I'm glad to see any of _her_ friends. Yes. Good

mor'n'. The children? Laws sakes, they're round the house like pups!"

The face was remarkable for a pair of brilliant black eyes, an

inheritance of Italian ancestry. She was not yet middle-aged, and her

hair had turned prematurely gray. Her hands were bony, nervous hands,

indicative of great executive capacity, but the incessant work had left

them trembling.

"Are all your children here?" I asked, not knowing what else to say.

"Here's four of 'em. Come out here, you in there, an' I'll count ye." It

was a pitiful sight to see these five plump, rosy youngsters pass in

review before the frail, emaciated mother.

"But here are only nine," I ventured.

"Salt's missing, mother," said the eldest girl; "he's with father to the

trap."

"So he is, Kittie. They've rowed round the cove with what they ketched.

They'll be back d'rectly."

"But how do you manage, Mrs.--ah--Scud?" I asked. I am afraid there was

a slight choke in my throat as I spoke. The mother cast a quick look at

my face, and shoving her children into the house, one by one, said:

"Now go, Kittie; finish the dishes. You, Mamie, put the baby kearfully

in the box. What did you hit Jim for, Sammy? Let me ketch you a-hitten

your little brother agin an' I'll spank you. Now get in the house, all

of ye. You see, miss," turning to me, "we manage somehow. If it wa'n't

fur _her_, we'd give up. There's that boy Jim, he took to swearing this

spring. I declare it was jess awful to hear him go on. I spanked him,

and Scud he switched him, but it wa'n't to no use. That boy talked jess

scand'lous, till your cousin here, miss, she heerd him one mornin', an'

took a white powder an' put a little on his tongue. It made Jim powerful

sick. And, says she, 'If I hear you swearin' agin I'll pizen ye; an'

you'll die in a minute an' never see God,' and I declare to goodness he

was so skeared that I hain't heerd him swear since. There's Scud.

Where's Salt, pa? Come here an' speak to the ladies. She's brought ye

some ties."

"Salt's makin' the boat fast," began Scud, nodding with inimitable ease

to his visitors. "I'm afraid ther's goin' to be--"

Scud stopped short in open-mouthed pleasure when he saw a couple of

brilliant red and blue ties dangling from Betty's hand. He had come up

the rocky path, whistling like a boy, with every line and pucker in his

face on a broad smile. If Lavater had seen this fisherman's physiognomy

he would have pronounced it indicative of incomparable good nature.

Indeed, Scud's good nature went so far at times as to be incomparably

inadequate to the demands of existence. If he happened to go for weeks

without catching so much as a sculpin in his net, and the starvation of

his youngsters stared him in the face, he showed none of the common

symptoms of discouragement, such as swearing, drinking, beating his

wife, or cursing his luck. He only whistled the blither, ran up bills at

the butcher's and grocer's with irresistible faith, borrowed his "chaws"

of his luckier mates, and laughed as if poverty were an excellent joke

that Providence was cracking at him. Why shouldn't he appreciate it,

even if it were at his own expense.

Scud was born "easy." Who could blame him? He gave up his lobster-pots

because it took too much time to dry them and keep them in repair, and

it was too cold and dangerous hauling them in stormy weather off the

rocks. Scud found it too troublesome to underrun his trap more than

twice a-day--once at six o'clock in the morning, then at six o'clock at

night. Even when the mackerel or the herring struck, and every man who

had a trap hovered over it night and day to keep the catch from

mysteriously immaterializing, as well as to gather it in, Scud was

satisfied with his diurnal visits. He "wa'n't a-goin' to keep a-runnin'

to see the fish swim in. If they were fool 'nough to go in the trap,

they could stay there till he underrun an' bailed 'em out." His methods

of gaining a livelihood were unique on the coast; yet it was Scud who

"stocked" eight hundred and fifty dollars that summer clean, two hundred

dollars above any one else in the harbor. It was the saying among some

of the jealous fishermen in the cove, who were not blessed with two

pairs of twins, that "nobody 'arned so easy a livin' as Scud without

doin' no work." But these indistinct murmurs never stimulated Scud nor

impaired his good nature. Indeed, Scud was the happiest man that ever

lived. What a dancing, laughing eye! What a catalogue of joys therein!

What contagious, hopeful humor! What irrepressible buoyancy of spirits!

Who could help loving Scud, as one loves a huge, long-coated St. Bernard

dog? Scud was the laughing, joyous, piping Pan of the ocean. He smoked

not, neither did he drink. He had no vices that debased him. Chewing is

not a vice for a fisherman. But he did have a curious taste for candy.

No present pleased him so much as a half a pound of caramels or of

sugar-coated nuts. It was the sweet animal nature instinctively laying

hold of sweets.

Scud's "easiness" was unmitigated--at times it was exasperating; but

this made him all the fatter, the jollier, the more companionable; and

as it succeeded so well, why not? Summer boarders were appreciative of

Scud. He lived upon them. Twins?--they did it. It was a dime show, and

the money was paid.

Two sets of authentic twins! It was enough to drain a woman's heart of

sympathy, a woman's pocket of money; and the summer boarders were mostly

women--married women, with husbands sweating in the city to support

them; single women, school-teachers and that sort.

But Scud stood looking at the ties. He seldom bought clothes, any more

than he purchased firewood or paid for his fish. They came to him. Here

was a pair of trousers that was once a bishop's. That coat and vest were

the velveteen relics of a posing artist. The cap was a yachtsman's gift,

and the neckties came as a matter of course. Yet Scud never begged. And

once when he caught one of his four-year-old boys insinuating to a

summer boarder, with outstretched palm, that he would like a penny, Scud

thrashed him within a centimeter of his life. New England fishermen will

take a gift as a sort of neighborly accommodation to you; but he'll

starve before he will ask you for it.

"Are them fur me?" (Scud was always surprised at such a crisis.) "Thank

ye, ma'am. Ain't them showy? I guess they'll skeer the mac'rel off the

coast."

"I wanted you to take me out sailing this morning, Mr. Scud," I began,

after a formal introduction. Scud looked somewhat gratified with the

prefix to his name, and regarded me with interest. To take boarders out

sailing at the rate of seventy-five cents an hour was the kind of work

he would do.

"Yes, ma'am. But I'm 'fraid it'll be a little fresh to-day, if ye hain't

used to sailin'." He jerked his head to the westward. "Salt is a makin'

the dory fast with a new haulin'-line, ma'am. I guess we'll have a

squall pretty soon."

We followed Scud's gesture and looked. A squall on a day like this? The

white streamers had vanished, and above us was dark, unfathomable blue.

But on the western horizon, stretching far to the south, a black bank

had arisen. No cloud in the physical geography was ever sketched

blacker. It had come up as stealthily as a Zulu warrior. It was the hue

of unpolished iron. It had a faint reddish tint. Its outline was as

clear cut as a cameo. It sent ahead here and there jagged tentacles,

broad at the base and fine at the tip, that advanced, dissolved, and

reappeared again with significant rapidity. The ocean had suddenly grown

lethargic. It seemed unable to reflect the sun that still shone. It

became like a platter of tarnished silver. As we looked, the sight

rapidly grew uglier.

Now my cousin Mabel seemed hypnotized by it. She stood for a few

minutes with her hands hanging at her sides; her delicate jaw dropped.

Suddenly she pulled herself together, and whispered: "It is horrible! It

is awful!" Then, as if seized with the full import of the scene, she

cried aloud, "My _children_! They are out fishing in a sail-boat! My

_children_!" She began to run towards the shore leaving us all staring

after her.

My nautical sense was not as highly trained as Mabel's, but I thought

the sight terrifying and fine. It was part of the Eastern culture

towards the education of the Western girl. But seeing Scud look sober--I

had the impression that it was for the first time in his life--I

pleaded:

"Do come too, Scud. Is it so bad? Won't it blow over?"

"It's goin' to be as bad as I ever seed in these parts, miss. I'll do

what I can. 'Twon't be much, I'll bet."

I ran down to the house, followed by Scud at a moderate walk. Scud never

ran. Would he have run for the drowning? I doubted it.

The clouds had arisen with terrible velocity. They coursed over the bare

sky like a black bull with horns down. White cirrhus clouds now darted

out here and there ahead, like fluttering standards of warning. And now

the sun was gored to death. The black bank advanced in one wide line.

Blackness had fallen everywhere. Anxiety was visible in every form of

nature--in the cries of the birds, the skulking of the dogs, the

blanched faces of the boarders, the attention of the fishermen.

In the British navy, when any terrible and sudden disaster occurs on a

man-of-war, such as the bursting of a gun, a collision, or striking upon

the rocks, the bugler sounds, what is known as "the still." On hearing

it every man aboard comes to a standstill. This momentary pause enables

each to collect his nerves to meet the summons of the shock. Nature was

now commanding "the still"; but the order came through the eyes. No

sound was as yet heard. The sea, the air, sentient life, all souls, held

their breath before the shock that must come. Men collected along the

coast to meet the threatened tornado. By that subtle force which

sensitive organisms will recognize, be it called telepathy or psychic

power or magnetism, I knew, ignorant as I was, that nature was silently

preparing for a terrific struggle.

When Scud and I joined Mabel on the rocks in front of her house we found

her wringing her hands, sobbing and crying for help. It seemed that her

two children, who had gone out fishing with their city guest, were in a

sail-boat. This was managed by a boy about their age--none of them were

over sixteen. But the lad who sailed the little boat was a fisherman's

son. He was considered very expert, and had broad experience from his

babyhood up. But this fact did not soothe the mother. Appalled by the

color and the swiftness of the clouds, and the ominous import to the

safety of the little sail-boat, we scanned the harbor and the coast; but

no boat answering to the description was in sight. Scud tried to comfort

the mother in his shaggy way. "The b'ys hev sailed to the inner cove,

ma'am. They's ashore by this time, I'll bet."

As Scud spoke, the large fishing-schooners, leaving and entering the

broad harbor shot, one after the other, as if by mutual impulse, into

the direction of the clouds, into the west, and dropped sails and

anchors with incredible rapidity. Far out to sea vessels were now seen

to ride with bare poles; it was evident that they had anticipated a

formidable blow. We stood on a bend in the shore, and the broad bay lay

between us and the rising storm. The rocky coast stood forth in a long,

broken outline opposite to us, far down towards Great Brabant. The open

Atlantic spread before us to the south-west. And now lightnings flashed

in angry sheets. The sea took to itself suddenly a peculiar greenish

tinge. There were heard distant bellowings. We strained our eyes for the

boys. Where were they? Where _were_ they? Two miles out ships began to

rock fearfully.

"They've cotched it!" shouted Scud. "Here it comes. Look out, leddies!"

Driven by earth's mightiest, most implacable, most invisible force, a

line of foam dashed across the bay. Spray from the water twenty feet

below struck us in the face simultaneously with the wind. The white

squall had burst upon us. I dragged my poor cousin with me to the

piazza, into the house, which shuddered through all its frame and would

have fallen had it not, after the fashion of this bleak shore, been

chained to the rocks.

Now Scud staid outside. It did not seem clear at first why. Pretty soon

we saw him trying to pull the tender upon the float, that was clean

washed by every wave.

Then came the first lull. The mother ran out into it wildly. The water

was green and white. Two coasters and a large yacht were running in for

shelter without a stitch of canvas. They were making straight for the

inner harbor.

"Look! Come here! Look! What's that boat? See! Way out there beyond the

island! My God! It's _my children_!"

A half-mile or more away, in the very heart of the squall, a little boat

with full sail set was staggering unto death. Language cannot hint at

the horror in the mother's face. She had made her summer's home for

fifteen years within a shell's throw of the sea, and she knew perfectly

well what this situation meant. No one could have undeceived her, and no

one tried. She stood for a moment staring straight ahead, stretched out

her arms, swayed, and fell. She was one of the fainting kind, and there

was nothing to be done about it. We carried her in and laid her down. It

was my impulse to trust her to her terrified servants. I was too

terrified myself to know whether I was right or wrong. Irresistibly

compelled, I rushed out of doors again, and appealed (with feminine

instinct, I suppose) to the only man, within reach. Scud responded

quickly enough.

"Yes; that's them!" He pitched his orotund voice upon me as if he were

giving a command in a gale at sea.

Men now began to gesticulate wildly at the ill-fated boat from the

rocks, as if that could help the matter.

"Drop that mains'l, you ---- fools, or you'll go to ----!" The voices

struck me like a volley of bullets, but they could not have penetrated

ten feet to windward.

"Scud!" I cried. "Help! Save them, Scud!"

"I can't do nothing," he howled in my ear. "No one can't. You can't row

in them breakers."

By this time the wind had increased its force. The sail-boat was near

enough for one to see the desperate attempts the boyish skipper made to

lower the sail. One of the halyards had become caught. The boy made wild

rushes to the mast. Then the boat would rock and fly around. To save her

the lad darted back to the helm just in time. This sickening struggle

against a knot was repeated several times. On the bottom the three

passengers lay inert with terror. A twenty-foot boat with full sail,

when hundred-ton schooners trembled under bare poles! Even my

inexperience grasped the situation.

"He's doing all-fired well, but he can't last no longer if that--He'll

be druv on the rocks! They'll be druv to----!"

The rocks were now lined with men commenting in an apathetic way upon

the tragedy enacting before their eyes.

"Why don't they _do_ something?" In my ignorance of the curious

stolidity which falls upon the shore in face of danger upon the sea, I

stood shrieking: "Why doesn't somebody go? Why don't you men do

_something_?"

The fishermen and the summer people looked into each other's eyes, but

no man answered a word.

"Can't _you_ help them?" I pleaded with another weather-beaten

fisherman.

"Can't be done, or I'd do it."

"I came down to see them capsize, an' I guess they'll go," said a gruff

voice.

But Scud gave me a long look. He stood quite silent. An expression of

rare gravity was on his joyous face. He glanced apprehensively from the

boat to the house.

"_She_ can't, Scud; she's fainted. There isn't anybody but me. I've

_got_ to do something. The children have _got_ to be saved, Scud!" The

Western girl shook him by the arm. Her very ignorance gave a force to

her appeal that intelligence could not have supplied. Had I understood

what I asked I should not have said: "Scud, won't you go? They are

drowning. See, Scud! _Go!_"

The doomed sail was beaten here and there in the fierce wind; the jib

was blown to tatters. The boat took in water, righted, and careened

with every riotous puff. A hundred times men turned their faces away and

women shrieked, expecting it to go down. A hundred times repeated

miracle protected the helpless boat.

Scud walked slowly down the heaving gangway that connected the rocks

with the float. The man who came down to see the boat capsize followed

with his hands in his pockets. He balanced himself on the railing with

his elbows as the gangway jumped beneath him.

"What yer up ter, Scud?" he yelled above the tempest. "They're driftin'

on yer trap. That'll fetch 'em."

Scud looked up. His feet were washed in the water that flooded the float

at every surge. To strike the trap meant instant overturn. To become

entangled in and driven on to the meshes of the broad, deep net meant

inevitable death.

"I guess I'll go. Help me shove the dingy off." So spoke Scud,

deliberately.

"You--" The rest of the expletive was lost in the gale. The breakers

made sport of Scud, and spat at him with their white tongues. "Your

childer! The twins! Betty!" thundered his friend.

Scud hurriedly put in the oar-locks. As he bent, the wind caught his

cap and dashed it on the rocks. Scud shook his brown hair to the furies.

"Ye see!" yelled his companion significantly. "Now get in, will ye?"

"Shet up, Steve! Gimme them oars. Don't ye see I'm goin'? I wish I hed

my dory."

A murmur of applause went up from the crowd as the fisherman shoved off.

The light tender was twisted about and all but cast upon the cliffs

before he could gain his first stroke.

And now the man of the sea set his weak mouth into petrified resolve.

The wind and the water attacked his boat like assassins. They meant to

kill. Scud knew this. He rowed guardedly, mistrustful of a cowardly

feint, of an underhand lunge. The tender quivered beneath each dash of

the waves, each onslaught of the squall, each hurried stroke of the

oars. Scud rowed warily, lest he be over-turned and buried between the

trough and the height of the waves. The wind howled at him. The bay

showered upon him. The gale clutched him and turned him about. How now!

Whence came these muscles of steel that subdued such powers arrayed

against lazy Scud? How now! Whence came that indomitable judgment that

baffled the elements at their own wildest sport? Fishermen stared from

the shore at this unparalleled exhibition of skill, coolness, courage

and strength from _Scud_.

Then, with the spite of which only a white squall is capable, it

thundered against Scud, and with the animosity of which only the

Atlantic Ocean is capable, it rose upon Scud and well-nigh bore him

under. Hope is easily dashed in the hearts of inert spectators, but Scud

did not falter. The crowd stood by commenting:

"Scud! Thet Scud? Poor Betty! Poor widder! We'll hev ter fish him up

ter-night. Plucky fellow! Brave deed! That's grit! Thar's skill! Who'd

'a' thought it? _Scud!_"

But Scud the "easy," Scud the do-little, Scud the good-for-naught--Scud,

of whom nobody expected anything--comfortable, self-indulgent Scud,

rowed on sturdily straight out into that hell. Could he ever overtake

the boat? How was it possible? If he did the extra weight would swamp

the fancy tender, built only to carry two or three at the most in light

weather. How could he get one in?

"Why the ---- didn't he take his dory?" asked an old man.

"How in ---- can he bring her up with a haulin'-line an' git in from the

rocks?" answered another contemptuously.

"Scud may get 'em," ventured an expert, "but what'll he do with 'em?"

Now Scud had rowed beyond the net to the right, in order to bear down

upon it the easier.

"Thar she strikes! God help 'em!" Cries came from a dozen throats. The

sail-boat struck against the leader of the net. It swung broadside to

the wind, that forced it over and under. Agonized shrieks were borne to

the shore. I was glad that Mabel was a fainting woman.

For some time Scud's wife had stood apart and looked upon the scene. Her

eyes were dry and feverish. She did not talk. She hugged a baby at her

breast desperately. Salt held a pair of twins; the oldest girl another.

Children sprawled upon the ground, clinging to their mother's feet and

dress. None drew near or spoke to this pathetic group. What could one

do? What word could one say? The storm swayed Betty here and there. Her

hair waved in the hurricane. She had long, pretty hair. Spray drenched

her. She did not cry out. She stood like the Niobe of the sea. She

looked like one expecting the fate that had been only delayed. An

average of two hundred men a year from this fishing-town are swallowed

up by the ocean that affords them sustenance, and their starving widows

are left after them. Betty was only one of a thousand of her kind who

stolidly concealed a desolate suspense. And now her turn had come,

harder than the rest, for she was in at the death.

It is a mystery until this day how Scud reached the over-turned

sail-boat as he did. With a dory his work would not have been

comparatively easy; but with a thirteen-foot yacht's tender it was

super-human. The two girls clinging to the wreck were lifted bodily into

the boat. Scud was quick but cool, and imparted perfect confidence to

the water-sodden children. At the fisherman's peremptory order, the two

boys clung to each side of the tender. We could see them dragging in the

water; it was the only way. Scud now began to row before the storm.

There were no cheers from the rocks. Not a man of them stirred. The

fishermen, hardened to perils of the sea, had been fascinated by this

exhibition of cool-blooded heroism from the least heroic of them all.

The cockle-shell dashed madly towards the shore.

No power could row it weighted against the wind that beat upon it with

fitful concentration. Straight before the tender was a little beach

between the rocks, not more than twenty feet wide, but this was

protected at its entrance by a line of reefs, easily passable at high

tide, and bare at low. The rollers broke upon most of these rocks, and

the spume swirled in dirty froth upon the pebbly beach. Scud made for

the opening. The gale drove him wildly along. A few men now ran to the

beach and the outlying rocks, ready to do the possible at any emergency.

Would Scud pass the reef or not? There was not time to answer the

question. The boat rose upon a huge wave. Foam and spray enveloped it

from view. There was a rumbling cry of horror. There was a dull

splintering crash. Fifty men rushed to the beach and lined the cliffs.

The boat had struck upon the last rock. As the wave passed on, the

terrible sight of black human heads appeared in a setting of white foam.

But these were within reach almost. These could be saved. Ah! Men wade

in, somehow, anyhow, forming a line, and pass one to shore. Saved! And

then another. Thank God! Here comes the third on that wave! Grasp that

dress! Tenderly, it is a girl. All here! All saved!

But where is Scud? Oh, but _he_ can swim. He is strong and used to

chilling water and fierce waves. The helpless children safe, and Scud

gone? Impossible! Incredible! Too horrible!

Involuntarily one man and then another turned to look at the widow and

the orphans, and then they turned and cursed the sea aloud.

At this moment a dark little figure shot past them all, by the

bewildered man, and dashed with a shriek into the foam. What did she do?

How did she do it? What could be done? A woman--a little woman--her baby

only one month old--Betty! She caught the sinking hand, the drowning

head--she never knew how. A dozen men plunged in now. Spectators who had

not wet their feet during all that horrible scene swam now in the

whirlpool for the woman's sake, and for the shame she wrought upon them.

Brawny arms and steady feet bore her back. Her little hand, rigid,

clutched her husband by the collar of his shirt.

Scud was carried quickly up and laid upon the piazza. An ugly bruise was

upon his forehead.

The wind died down. The rain came in white torrents. Betty stood in the

deluge and shielded her husband automatically. The children, most of

them too small to know the reason why, lifted up their voices and wept.

"Father," said Betty, softly, "why don't ye speak to me? Dearie, dearie

Scud. I saved ye. Hain't ye nothing to say to me, Scud?"

"You'd better go into the house," said some one. "Leave Scud to us

awhile." For in truth not a man or woman of us but believed that Scud

was dead.

"You jess get us to a kitchen fire," said Betty, quietly, "and leave him

to _me_."

And it was repeated with many a trembling lip far down the coast that

night that Scud would live.

* * * * *

It was the morning of my departure, and it had come by the last express

the night before. It had been kept a profound secret, for we would not

risk a cruel disappointment. Scud had rowed to town with a full fare of

fish, and Salt was with him, doing the rowing. We left word that they

should come to the house as soon as they had put up their dory. A

peremptory message was sent to Betty to come over immediately to do some

work. A few neighbors happened to drop in. There might have been a dozen

or so in all. My cousin did not go into town that day. He said he wanted

to see me off. Betty came a little early, and was set to scrubbing the

pantry floor.

But Scud, a hero? He had forgotten all about it now. He was the same old

fellow, just as easy, just as jolly, just as careless. Scud wasn't at

all spoiled by what had happened. He was as comfortable as the sea,

this very morning. Who would have suspected the passing of a grand storm

upon the hearts of either? Scud's sluggish blood had been "up" for one

fiery hour. For one great day he had been the hero of the coast--the

peer of all its heroes. Then the fire went out, and Scud became as he

was. Perhaps Scud was more popular; his babies were better fed.

Fishermen treated him with a grudged respect, and when he was pointed

out to every new squad of boarders as the bravest man on the whole

coast, they smiled. How could that grinning, singing Scud save a

jelly-fish?

It was just eleven o'clock. With what impatience we had waited for the

tramp of those rubber boots! We rushed upon the piazza and greeted Scud

and Salt, dressed in their oil-skins, just as they had come from the

trap. Scud halted uneasily at the front door.

"No miss, I can't come in in this toggery; I'm all gurry. I'll go home

and change my clothes. Couldn't get here sooner. Herrin' jess struck. We

sold ten barr'l this mornin'."

But we constrained him, and Scud entered, staring about, shuffling his

rubber boots and wiping them as best he might. White scales of fish

glittered upon his black oil-skins. He looked as if he were mailed in

silver.

It devolved upon me to fetch Betty from the pantry; but I saw as I went

that all of the people in the parlor stood up as Scud entered, as if

they were greeting a prince. Scud looked from one to the other

uncomfortably. He blushed a deep russet red, and stared, and then

laughed in a vacant way. Betty now appeared in the doorway, and the

three made a most impressive group in their working-clothes, wondering

what it was all about, and what the city folk were after now.

"Scud," said the master of the house, clearing his throat, "you have

done the bravest deed this coast has record of for twenty years. You

have saved to us our children, dearer than our life. You had your own

wife to think of, and the children who depend upon you for their bread.

You have been a hero. To us you are always a hero, and our love and

gratitude will last as long as our days. I have the privilege of

presenting to you the highest tribute Massachusetts pays to her brave

men--the gold medal of her great Humane Society, one hundred years old.

This honor has not been sought, but has been eagerly bestowed. May it

never leave your family! It will be an inspiration to your boys. You

have obtained the reward of your pluck, and you deserve it, old fellow.

Now shake!" The speech broke in eloquence, but not in feeling.

"See," said Mabel, "I kiss the medal for you and for my dear children's

sake." She flashed it from its plush case, and placed the solemn emblem,

whose exquisite engravings glittered like a jewel, in his great wet

hands.

Salt turned his face to the wall. Betty put her apron over her face, and

Scud's eyes ran dripping over. He opened his mouth, but no sound came

forth.

"And now, Betty, look here," said her mistress in a gay, tremulous tone,

"I have something for _you_." She held out in her delicate hand forty

silver dollars, the gift of the Humane Society to Betty herself. "You

are a woman, and you saved a man's life," explained my cousin, "and the

society always recognizes the courage of a woman."

But Betty drew herself up in her scrubbing dress. She had a fine look.

"Thank you, ma'am," she said, "and the gentleman too. But he was my

husband; I don't take no money from nobody for savin' of my husband. I'm

just as much obleeged to ye." Almost every child in her house was

dressed in "given" clothes, but the unpauperized soul looked out of

Betty's faded eyes.

"Well," said my cousin, looking nonplussed, "how would it do to make it

over to the twins?"

"As ye please," said Betty, shining. So the four twin babies received

ten silver dollars apiece from the Humane Society for plunging into the

water and saving their father's life. This was an illegal procedure. I

grant it. And if the Society now for the first time learneth of the

matter, I am fain to believe that it is too old and too great to take

account thereof.

* * * * *

We were rowing over to catch my train. Scud was the oarsman. He sat

quite still, and had a dazed look. Midway of the bay he stopped pulling,

lifted and crossed his oars. I saw his Adam's apple rising and falling

like an irresolute tide.

"I were took all of a sudden," he said, slowly; "I never felt so in all

my life. My throat felt kinder queer an' dry. But I'm mightily obliged

to yer. It might give Salt a lift. But I didn't know what to say, an' so

I didn't say nothing'."