"Now, Davy," he declared, his head on one side, the letter held gingerly
before him, "I wouldn't read that letter an I could. No, lad--not an I
could! But I've heared tell she had a deal o' l'arnin'; an' I'd kind
o'--like t'--take a peek inside. Just," he added, hurriedly, "t' see
what power she had for writin'."
This pretense to a purely artistic interest in the production was
wondrously trying to the patience.
"Skipper Davy," he went on, awkwardly, skippering me with a guile that
was shameless, "it bein' from a woman--bein' from a _woman_, now, says
I--'twould be no more 'n po-lite t' open it. Come, now, Davy!" he
challenged. "You wouldn't _say_ 'twould be more 'n po-lite, would you?
It bein' from a lone woman?"
I made no answer: for, at that moment, I caught sight of the twins,
listening with open-mouthed interest from the threshold.
"I wonders, Davy," the skipper confided, taking the leap, at last, "what
she've gone an' writ!"
"Jacky," I burst out, in disgust, turning to the twins, "I just _knowed_
he'd get t' wonderin'!"
Skipper Tommy started: he grew shamefaced, all in a moment; and he
seemed now first conscious of guilty wishes.
"Timmie," said Jacky, hoarsely, from the doorway, "she've writ."
"Ay, Jacky," Timmie echoed, "she've certain gone an' done it."
They entered.
"I been--sort o'--gettin' a letter, lads," the skipper stammered: a hint
of pride in his manner. "It come ashore," he added, with importance,
"from the mail-boat."
"Dad," Timmie asked, sorrowfully, "is you been askin' Davy t' read that
letter?"
"Well, no, Timmie," the skipper drawled, tweaking his nose; "'tisn't
quite so bad. But I been wonderin'----"
"Oh, is you!" Jacky broke in. "Timmie," said he, grinning, "dad's been
wonderin'!"
"Is he?" Timmie asked, assuming innocence. "Wonderin'?"
"Wasn't you sayin' so, dad?"
"Well," the skipper admitted, "havin' _said_ so, I'll not gainsay it. I
_was_ wonderin'----"
"An' you _knowin'_," sighed Timmie, "that you're an obligin' man!"
"Dad," Jacky demanded, "didn't the Lard kindly send a switch o' wind
from the sou'east t' save you oncet?"
The skipper blushed uneasily.
"Does you think," Timmie pursued, "that He'll turn His hand _again_ t'
save you?"
"Well----"
"Look you, dad," said Jacky, "isn't you got in trouble enough all along
o' wonderin' too much?"
"Well," the skipper exclaimed, badgered into self-assertion, "I _was_
wonderin'; but since you two lads come in I been _thinkin'_. Since them
two twins o' mine come in, Davy," he repeated, turning to me, his eyes
sparkling with fatherly affection, "I been thinkin' 'twould be a fine
plan t' tack this letter t' the wall for a warnin' t' the household agin
the wiles o' women!"
Timmie and Jacky silently embraced--containing their delight as best
they could, though it pained them.
"Not," the skipper continued, "that I'll have a word said agin' that
woman: which I won't," said he, "nor no other. The Lard knowed what He
was about. He made them with His own hands, an' if _He_ was willin' t'
take the responsibility, us men can do no less than stand by an' weather
it out. 'Tis my own idea that He was more sot on fine lines than sailin'
qualities when He whittled His model. 'I'll make a craft,' says He, 'for
looks, an' I'll pay no heed,' says He, 't' the cranks she may have,
hopin' for the best.' An' He done it! That He did! They're tidy
craft--oh, ay, they're wonderful tidy craft--but 'tis Lard help un in a
gale o' wind! An' the Lard made _she_," he continued, reverting to the
woman from Wolf Cove, "after her kind, a woman, acquaint with the wiles
o' women, actin' accordin' t' nature An'," he declared, irrelevantly,
"_'tis_ gettin' close t' winter, an' _'twould_ be comfortable t' have a
man t' tend the fires. She _do_ be of a designin' turn o' mind," he
proceeded, "which is accordin' t' the nature o' women, puttin' no blame
on her, an' she's not a wonderful lot for looks an' temper; but,"
impressively lifting his hand, voice and manner awed, "she've l'arnin',
which is ek'al t' looks, if not t' temper. So," said he, "we'll say
nothin' agin' her, but just tack this letter t' the wall, an' go split
the fish. But," when the letter had thus been disposed of, "I wonder
what----"
"Come on, dad!"
He put an arm around each of the grinning twins, and Timmie put an arm
around me; and thus we went pell-mell down to the stage, where we had an
uproarious time splitting the day's catch.
* * * * *
You must know, now, that all this time we had been busy with the fish,
dawn to dark; that beyond our little lives, while, intent upon their
small concerns, we lived them, a great and lovely work was wrought upon
our barren coast: as every year, unfailingly, to the glory of God, who
made such hearts as beat under the brown, hairy breasts of our men.
From the Strait to Chidley, our folk and their kin from Newfoundland
with hook and net reaped the harvest from the sea--a vast, sullen sea,
unwilling to yield: sourly striving to withhold the good Lord's bounty
from the stout and merry fellows who had with lively courage put out to
gather it. 'Twas catch and split and stow away! In the dawn of stormy
days and sunny ones--contemptuous of the gray wind and reaching
seas--the skiffs came and went. From headland to headland--dodging the
reefs, escaping the shifting peril of ice, outwitting the drifting
mists--little schooners chased the fish. Wave and rock and wind and
bergs--separate dangers, allied with night and fog and sleety rain--were
blithely encountered. Sometimes, to be sure, they wreaked their purpose;
but, notwithstanding, day by day the schooners sailed and the skiffs put
out to the open, and fish were cheerily taken from the sea. Spite of
all, the splitting-knives flashed, and torches flared on the decks and
in the mud huts ashore. Barren hills--the bleak and uninhabited places
of the northern coast--for a season reflected the lurid glow and echoed
the song and shout. Thanks be to God, the fleet was loading!
In the drear autumn weather a cloud of sail went to the
s'uth'ard--doughty little schooners, decks awash: beating up to the home
ports.