_Containing the Surprising Adventure of Eli Zitt's
Little Partner on the Way Back from Fortune Harbour,
in Which a Newfoundland Dog Displays a Saving
Intelligence_
BOBBY LOT, Eli Zitt's little partner, left his dog at home when he set
out for Fortune Harbour in Eli's punt. He thought it better for the
dog. He liked company, well enough, did Bobby; but he loved his dog.
Why expose the lazy, fat, old fellow, with his shaky legs and broken
teeth, to an attack in force by the pack of a strange harbour?
The old dog's fighting days were over. He had been a mighty, masterful
beast in his prime; and he had scarred too many generations of the
Ruddy Cove pack to be molested now as he waddled about the roads and
coves where his strength and courage had been proved. But the dogs of
Fortune Harbour knew nothing of the deeds he had done; and an air of
dignity, a snarl and a show of yellow teeth would not be sufficient to
discourage the yelping onset.
"They'd kill him," thought the master.
So the lad determined to leave his dog at home, and it was well for him
that he did.
"Go back, Bruce!" he cried, as he pushed out from Eli Zitt's wharf-head.
But Bruce slipped into the water from the rocks, and swam after the
boat, a beseeching look in the eyes which age had glazed and shot with
blood. He was not used to being left at home when Bobby pushed out in
the punt.
"Go home, b'y!" cried Bobby, lifting an oar.
The threatening gesture was too much for Bruce. He raised himself in
the water and whined, then wheeled about and paddled for shore.
"Good dog!" Bobby called after him.
In response, the water in the wake of the dog was violently agitated.
He was wagging his tail. Thus he signified a cheerful acquiescence.
"He'll be wonderin' why he've been sent back," thought Bobby. "'Tis too
bad we can't tell dogs things like that."
* * * * *
Bobby had a message for Sammy Tompkins. It was about the great run of
cod at Good Luck Tickles, the news of which had reached Ruddy Cove that
morning. But old Sammy was on the Black Fly fishing grounds when the
lad got to Fortune Harbour. It was growing dark when he got in for the
night. So Bobby chanced to be late starting home.
The wind had fallen away to a breathless calm; the sky was thickly
overcast, and a thin mist lay between the gloomy clouds and the sea's
long, black ground-swell. Bobby had not pulled through four of the six
miles before sea and sky and rocky coast were melted into one vast,
deep shadow, except where, near at hand, the bolder headlands were to
be distinguished by one who knew them well.
"I wonder," Bobby thought, "if I'll get home before mornin'. 'Tis hard
t' say. I might have t' lie out here all night. Sure, I hope it gets no
thicker."
He rowed on towards Ruddy Cove, taking new bearings from time to time
as the deeper shadows of the headlands loomed out of the dark of the
night. Thus, he followed the coast, making with great caution for the
narrow entrance to the inner harbour, which invariably was hard to find
at night or in the fog.
The sea was breaking against the rocks. The noise was loud in Bobby's
ears, and served to guide him at such times as the headlands were
indistinguishable from the clouds. His progress was slow and cautious;
for he knew the dangers of the way he must take.
There was a line of submerged rocks--The Wrecker, Old Moll and
Deep Down--lying out from Iron Head, directly in his path. That
neighbourhood was a neighbourhood of danger. When the lad caught sight
of the strange outline of Iron Head, he swerved the bow of the boat to
sea and paddled out. He wanted to make sure of rounding Deep Down, the
outermost rock--of giving it a wide berth.
But the night and the noise of the breakers confused him. He could not
tell whether or not he had gone far enough. At length he decided that
he must be safely beyond the rock. But where was Deep Down? Often he
paused to turn and look ahead. Every glance he cast was more anxious
than the one before. He was getting nervous.
"'Tis hard t' tell if the sea is breakin' on Deep Down," he said to
himself. "Sure, it must be, though."
It was important to know that. Sometimes only the larger swells curl
and break as they roll over Deep Down. Bobby knew that just such a sea
was running then. Had it been daylight, the green colour and the slight
lifting of the water would have warned him of the whereabouts of that
dangerous reef. But it was night; the spray, as the wave was broken and
flung into the air, and the swish and the patter, as the water fell
back, were the signs he was on the lookout for.
If, then, the waves broke only at long intervals, the punt might at any
moment be lifted and overturned. It might even then be floating over
the rock. Bobby's heart beat faster when the greater swells slipped
under the boat. Would they break beneath him? Would they break near
at hand? He paddled slowly. It was better to be cautious, he thought,
until he had Deep Down located. So he listened and looked as he paddled
on.
At last he heard the significant swish and patter. He flashed about to
look ahead. But he was too late. The spray had fallen and disappeared.
"'Tis somewheres near," he thought, "and 'tis breakin'. But whether t'
port or starboard, I don't know."
Again--and apparently from another quarter--he heard the noise of
a breaking wave. He turned in time to catch sight of a gleam of
phosphorescence off the port bow.
"If that's Deep Down," he thought, "I'm safe. But if 'tis Old Moll or
The Wrecker, I'm somewheres over Deep Down. I wisht I knowed which it
was."
What was it? The Wrecker, Old Moll or Deep Down? Which one of the three
rocks that lay in a line off Iron Head?
"I wisht I knowed," Bobby muttered, as he bent anew to the oars.
* * * * *
In the meantime, old Sol Sludge, of Becky Sharpe's cove, which lies
beyond Iron Head, had started for Ruddy Cove by the goat paths to
tell Skipper John Matthews that he would take a berth in the schooner
_Rescue_ when she got back from the Labrador.
He had a candle-lantern to light the way. When he had crossed the Head
and was bound down the valley to meet the Ruddy Cove road, he heard a
cry for help. It came from the sea, with a soft southwest wind which
had sprung up--a sharp "Help! Help!" ringing out of the darkness again
and again. Old Sol listened stupidly, until, as from exhaustion, the
cries turned hoarse and weak.
"Now, I wonder who's out there," the dull old fellow thought. "It
sounded like a woman's voice. Sure, it may be the spirit o' Mary Rutt.
She was drowned off Iron Head."
Nevertheless, he made haste to Ruddy Cove--all the haste his old legs
and dim sight would permit--and told the folk that he had heard the cry
of a spirit drift in from the sea off Iron Head. But nobody believed
that.
Who was in the water off Iron Head? was the question that passed from
cottage to cottage. Was it Billy Topsail? No; for Billy told the folk
in person that he had come in from the grounds at twilight. Was it
Josiah Seaworthy? No; for Josiah's wife said that he had gone by way of
Crooked Tickle to Burnt Harbour.
Who was it? Had Eli Zitt's little partner got back from Fortune
Harbour? When Eli Zitt heard of that cry for help he knew that Bobby's
punt had been overturned on one of the Iron Head rocks. Like a woman's
voice? That surely was Bobby's--that clear, full voice. So he called
for a crew to man the skiff, and in five minutes he was ready to push
off.
Old Bruce jumped aboard.
"Get out with you!" said Bill Watt, aiming a kick at him by the light
of the lantern.
"Sc-ctt!" cried old Tom Topsail.
But Bruce was a practiced stowaway. He slunk forward, and found a
refuge under the bow seat.
"Push off, lads!" Eli shouted. "Give way!"
In ten minutes the skiff had passed from the harbour to the sea. Eli
Zitt, who worked the scull oar, turned her bow towards the Iron Head
rocks. It was dark; but he had fished those waters from boyhood, and he
knew the way, daylight or dark.
Dark it was, indeed! How was Bobby to be found in that great shadow? He
was a water-dog, was Bobby; but there was a limit to his endurance, and
half an hour at least had passed since old Sol Sludge had heard his cry
for help.
A long search meant failure. He must be found soon or he would not be
found at all. On went the boat, the water curling from her bows and
swirling in her wake. The phosphorescence flashed and glowed as the
oars were struck deep and lifted.
"He'll be swimmin' in," Bill Watt panted, when the skiff had covered
half the distance to Deep Down. "They's no place for him t' land with
this sea on. We ought t' meet him hereabouts."
"If he's afloat," Topsail added.
"Oh, he's afloat yet," Eli said, confidently. "He's a strong swimmer,
that lad is."
"I'm thinkin' he'll be nearer shore," said Bill Watt.
"No, no! He's further out an' on."
"Bobby!" Topsail shouted. "Oh, Bobby!"
There was no reply. For a moment the rowers lifted their oars from the
water. Silence was all about--from the boat to the shore rocks, where
the waves were breaking. The cries for help had ceased.
"Gone down," Bill Watt muttered.
The men gave way again. Again they paused to call Bobby's name, and to
listen, with anxious hearts, for some far-off, answering cry. Again
they gave way. Again they called and called, but heard no answer.
"Gone down," Bill Watt repeated.
"Give way, lads!" cried Eli. "He's further out."
Old Bruce came out from hiding. He crawled to the stern seat and
sniffed to windward. Then, with his nose pointed astern, he began to
howl.
"Shut up, you!" Topsail exclaimed.
But Bruce could not be quieted--not even after Topsail's boot had
caught him in the side and brought a sharp howl of pain. Still he
sniffed to windward and barked.
"Throw him over," said Bill Watt. "We'll not be able t' hear Bobby."
"Oh, if 'twas only light!" Eli groaned, not heeding Watt.
But it was dark. The water was covered with deepest shadow. Only the
breakers and the black outline of Iron Head could be seen. Bobby might
be swimming near at hand but too far off to send an audible shout for
help.
"Bobby--oh--Bobby!"
If a cry in answer had gone up, the barking of the dog drowned it. The
dog must be quieted.
"Push the brute over!" said Watt.
Watt himself dropped his oar and stepped to the stern. He took Bruce
unaware and tumbled him into the water. The old dog made no protest. He
whined eagerly and swam out from the boat--a straight course astern.
"Now, what did he do that for?" mused Watt.
"That's queer," said Topsail.
Eli looked deep into the night. The dog left a luminous wake. Beyond,
in the direction the dog had taken, the man caught sight of a
phosphorescent glow. Watt saw it at the same moment.
"What's that?" said he. "They's fiery water, back there!"
"Man," cried Eli, "the dog knowed! Sure, it must be Bobby, swimmin'
up, an' too beat out t' cry. Fetch her about, lads. We're on the wrong
course. Haste! He'll not be able t' last much longer."
Eli was right. The dog _had_ known. It was Bobby. When they picked him
up he was too much exhausted to speak. It was afterwards learned that
he had mistaken the spray of the Old Moll breaker for Deep Down and had
been turned over by the outer rock when he thought himself safe. He had
heard the call of his name, and had seen the lantern of the rescuing
skiff, as it drew near; but, long before, he had worn his voice out
with screaming for help, and could make no answer. He had heard the
barking of Bruce, too; had known its significance, and had wondered
whether or not the dog would be understood. But all that he could say,
when they lifted him aboard--and that in a hoarse, weak whisper--was:
"Bruce!"
At that moment the crew heard a piteous whine near at hand. It was Bill
Watt who pulled the exhausted old dog over the gunwale.
"Good dog!" said he.
And so said they all.