Didn't she, Anthony Lot? An' my pa's sailin' foreign parts jus' now.
Isn't he, Anthony Lot? I might get a letter from un by the next
mail-boat. No tellin' when a letter will come. Anytime at all--maybe
next boat. An' my pa might turn up here hisself. Mightn't he, Anthony
Lot? Might turn up right here in Hide-an'-Seek Harbor without givin'
me the least word o' warnin'. Any day at all, too. Eh, Anthony Lot?"
"Skipper of a steam vessel in the South American trade," says Anthony.
"Any day at all?"
"Plyin' out o' Rio, I'm told."
"Eh, Anthony Lot? Any day at all?"
Anthony grinned at me in a way I'd no taste for. "Any day at all,"
says he t' the lad. "You got it right, Sammy."
"Ol' Sandy Spot is fetchin' me up," says the lad, "'til my pa comes
home. It don't cost my pa a copper, neither. Ol' Sandy Spot is
fetchin' me up jus' for my pa's sake. That's what comes o' havin' a pa
like the pa I got. Don't it, Anthony Lot?"
"I 'low so, Sammy; jus' for your pa's sake--an' the Gov'ment stipend,
too."
What slur was hid in that sly whisper about the Gov'ment stipend
escaped the lad.
"Ah-ha!" he crowed.
I'm accustomed t' pry into the hearts o' folks. With no conscience at
all I eavesdrops on feelin's. 'Tis a passion an' fixed practice. An'
now my curiosity clamored for satisfaction. I was suspicious an' I was
dumbfounded.
"You might put more heart in your crowin'," says I.
The lad turned on me with his breath caught an' his wee teeth as bare
as a wolf's.
"What you say that for?" says he.
"'Tis a pleasure," says I, "t' stir your wrath in your pa's behalf.
'Tis a pretty sight t' see. I enjoys it. In these modern times," says
I, "'tis not often I finds a lad as proud of his pa as you. My duty t'
you, sir," says I. "I praise you."
The lad looked t' the skipper.
"My compliments," says Hard Harry, enjoyin' the play. "Me, too. I
praise you highly."
"Whew!" says the lad. "Such manners abash me. There's no answer on the
tip o' my tongue. I'm ashamed o' my wit."
Skipper Harry chuckled. An' I laughed. An' the wee lad laughed, too.
An' dull Anthony Lot, in a fuddle o' stupidity an' wonder, stared from
one t' the other, not knowin' whether t' grin or complain of our
folly. There was foul weather with-out--wind in the riggin', blowin'
in from the sea an' droppin' down over the hills, an' there was the
patter o' black rain on the roof o' the cabin. 'Tis a matter for large
surprise, it may be, that growed men, like Hard Harry an' me, should
find interest an' laughter in a gossip like that. Yet 'tis dull times
on a tradin' schooner, when trade's done for the day, an' the night's
dismal an' sodden with rain; an' with a fire in the bogie-stove
aboard, an' no lively maids t' draw un ashore to a dance or a scoff o'
tea an' cakes in a strange harbor, a man seizes the distraction that
seeks un out, and makes the best of it that he can. More than that,
an' deep an' beyond it, 'twas entertainment, an' a good measure of it,
that had come blinkin' down the deck. Afore we had time or cause for
complaint o' the botheration o' childish company, we was involved in a
brisk passage o' talk, which was no trouble at all, but sped on an'
engaged us without pause. There was that about the wee lad o'
Hide-an'-Seek Harbor, too, as a man sometimes encounters, t' command
our interest an' t' compel our ears an' our tongues t' their labor.
* * * * *
With that, then, the lad's tongue broke loose an' ran riot in his
father's praise. I never heared such wild boastin' in all my travels
afore--eyes alight with pleasure, as I thought at the time, an' tow
head waggin' with wonder an' pride, an' lips curlin' in contempt for
the fathers of all the wide world in comparison; an' had not the lad
been too tender in years for grave blame, too lonely an' forlorn for
punishment, an' of a pretty loyalty to his father's fame and quality,
pretty enough to excuse the preposterous tales that he told, I should
have spanked un warmly, then an' there, an' bade un off ashore to
cleanse his wee tongue o' the false inventions. There was no great
deed that his father hadn't accomplished, no virtue he lacked, no
piety he had not practiced; an' with every reckless, livin' boast o'
the man's courage an' cleverness, his strength an' vast adventures, no
matter how far-fetched, went a tale to enlighten an' prove it. The
sea, the ice, the timber--'twas all the same; the father o' this lad
was bolder an' wiser an' more gifted with graces than the fathers of
all other lads--had endured more an' escaped more. So far past belief
was the great tales the lad told that 'twas pitiable in the end; an' I
wasn't quite sure--bein' a sentimental man--whether t' guffaw or t'
blink with grief.
"You is spinnin' a wonderful lot o' big yarns for a wee lad like
you," says Skipper Harry. "Aw, now, an I was you," says he, in
kindness, "I wouldn't carry on so careless."
"I knows other yarns."
"You s'prise me!"
"I could startle you more."
"Where'd you learn all them yarns?"
"I been told 'em."
"Your pa tell you?"
The lad laughed. "Dear man, no!" says he. "I never seed my pa in all
my life."
"Never seed your pa in all your life! Well, now!"
"Why, no, sir! Didn't you know that?"
"You didn't tell me."
"I didn't think I _had_ t' tell you. I thought ev'body in the world
knowed that much about _me_."
"Well, well!" says the skipper. "Never seed your pa in all your life!
Who told you all them yarns then?"
"Ev'body."
"Oh! Ev'body, eh? I sees. Jus' so. You like t' hear yarns about your
pa?"
"Well," says the lad, "I 'low I certainly do! Wouldn't you--if you had
a pa like me?"
'Twas too swift a question.
"Me?" says Skipper Harry, nonplused.
"Ay--tell me!"
Skipper Harry was a kind man an' a foolish one. "I bet ye I would!"
says he, "I'd fair crave 'em. I'd pester the harbor with questions
about my pa."
"That's jus' what I does do!" says the lad. "Doesn't I, Anthony Lot?"
"You got it right, Sammy," says Anthony. "You can't hear too much
about your wonderful pa."
"You hears a lot, Sammy," says the skipper.
"Oh, ev'body knows my pa," says the lad, "an' ev'body spins me yarns
about un."
"Jus' so," says the skipper, gone doleful. "I sees."
"Talkin' about my pa," says the lad, turnin' t' me, then, "I bet ye he
could blow one o' them little black things better 'n you."
"He could play the flute, too!" says I.
"Well, I never been tol' so," says the lad; "but 'twould not s'prise
me if he could. Could he, Anthony Lot?--could my pa play the flute?"
"He could."
"Better 'n this man?"
"Hoosh! Ay, that he could!"
"There!" says the lad. "I tol' you so!"
Anthony Lot turned his back on the lad an' cast a wink at me, an'
grinned an' winked again, an' winked once more t' Skipper Harry; an'
then he told us all as silly an' bitter cruel a whopper as ever I
heared in all my travels. "Once upon a time, Sir Johnnie McLeod, him
that was Gov'nor o' Newf'un'land in them days, sailed this coast in
the Gov'ment yacht," says he; "an' when he come near by Hide-an'-Seek
Harbor, he says: 'I've inspected this coast, an' I've seed the mines
at Tilt Cove, an' the whale fishery at Sop's Arm, an' the mission at
Battle Harbor, an' my report o' the wonders will mightily tickle His
Gracious Majesty the King; but what I have most in mind, an' what lies
nearest my heart, an' what I have looked forward to most of all, is t'
sit down in my cabin, at ease, an' listen to a certain individual o'
Hide-an'-Seek Harbor, which I heared about in England, play on the
flute.' Well, the Gov'ment yacht dropped anchor in Hide-an'-Seek,
Sammy, an' lied the night jus' where this here tradin' schooner lies
now; an' when Sir Johnnie McLeod had heared your father play on the
flute, he says: 'The man can play on the flute better 'n anybody in
the whole world! I'm glad I've lived t' see this day. I'll see to it
that he has a gold medal from His Gracious Majesty the King for this
night's work.'"
"Did my pa get the gold medal from His Gracious Majesty?"
"He did, in due course."
"Ah-ha!" crowed the lad t' Skipper Harry. "I tol' you so!"
Skipper Harry's face had gone hard. He looked Anthony Lot in the eye
until Anthony begun t' shift with uneasiness an' shame.
"Anthony," says he, "does that sort o' thing give you any real
pleasure?"
"What sort o' thing?"
"Tellin' a yarn like that to a wee lad like he?"
"'Twasn't nothin' wrong."
"Nothin' wrong!--t' bait un so?"
"Jus' a bit o' sport."
"Sorry sport!"
"Ah, well, he've growed used to it."
T' this the lad was listenin' like a caribou o' the barrens scentin'
peril.
"'Twas a naughty thing t' do, ye ol' crab!" says the skipper t'
Anthony Lot.
The lad struck in.
"Isn't it true?" says he.
Skipper Harry cotched the quiver o' doubt an' fear in his voice an'
was warned jus' in time. There was jus' one thing t' say.
"True?" says the skipper. "Sure, 'tis true! Who doubts it?"
"Not me," says Anthony.
"Ye hadn't better!" says the skipper.
"You bet ye 'tis true!" says I. "I've heared that selfsame tale many a
time afore."
"Sammy, my son," says the skipper, "who is your father anyhow?"
The lad fair glowed with pride, as it seemed t' me then. Up went his
head--out went his wee chest; an' his eyes went wide an' shinin', an'
he smiled, an' the blood o' pride flushed his cheeks red.
"I'm John Scull's son!" says he.
Anthony Lot throwed back his head an' shot a laugh through his musty
beard.
"Now," says he, "d'ye think it comical?"
Skipper Harry shook his head.
"God, no!" says he.
"What's the matter?" says the lad. His mouth was twitchin'. 'Twas
awful t' behold. 'Tis worse when I think o' the whole truth of his
state. "What's--what's the m-m-matter?" says he. "Wh-wh-what's the
matter?"
Skipper Harry an' me jus' sot there starin' at un. John Scull's son!
Everybody in Newf'un'land knowed all about John Scull o' Hide-an'-Seek
Harbor.
* * * * *
'Twas plain--the whole tale o' the lad's little life. In all my
travels afore I had never encountered a child in a state as woeful an'
helpless as that. In the beginnin', no doubt, 'twas needful t' lie t'
un--a baby, no more, bewildered by a mystery that he had now forgot
all about, an' plyin' folk with questions in ease o' the desolation in
which his father had plunged un. The folk o' Hide-an'-Seek Harbor had
lied in kindness at first--'twas all plain; an' in the drift o' the
years since then, little by little, more an' more, with less
conscience all the while, they had lied for their own amusement. Look
you, the lad had boasted, no doubt, an' was a comical sight when he
did--chest out an' face scowlin' an' flushed, as we had seed it that
night, an' his wee legs spread an' his way growed loud, whilst he
declared the virtues of a father whose fortune was knowed to them
all, young an' old alike, an' whose fate was a by-word. In the end,
I'm thinkin', 'twas a cherished sport, followed by the folk o' the
harbor an' all strangers, thus t' tell wild tales t' the lad, an' the
wilder the more comical, of his father's great deeds; an' 'twas a
better sport still, an' far more laughable, t' gather 'round un, at
times, for their own amusement an' the entertainment o' travelers, an'
hear un repeat, with his own small inventions t' season them, the
whoppin' yarns they had teached un t' believe.
Skipper Harry was married to a maid o' Linger Tickle, an' was jus' a
average, kindly sort o' man, with a heart soft enough, as the hearts
o' most men is, t' be touched by the woes o' children, an' the will t'
act rashly in relief o' them, come what might of it by an' by, if
'twas no hard riddle t' know what t' do at once. Sailin' our coast, I
had heared un declare, poundin' it out on the forecastle table, that
the man who debated a deed o' kindness with his own heart, or paused
t' consider an' act o' punishment in company with his own reason,
shamed his manhood thereby, an' fetched his soul into jeopardy. They
called un Hard Harry, true enough; but 'twas not because his
disposition was harsh--'twas because he was a hard driver at sea an'
put the craft he was master of to as much labor as she could bear at
all times. Knowin' the breed o' the man as well as I knowed it, I
could tell that he was troubled, whether by wrath or grief, there was
no knowin' which, an' would explode one way or t'other afore long. He
must on deck for a fresh breath o' the wet night, says he, or smother;
an' he would presently drop below again, says he, in command of his
temper an' restlessness. I seed, too, that the lad wished t'
follow--he watched the skipper up the ladder, like a doubtful dog, an'
got up an' wagged hisself; but he thought better o' the intrusion an'
set sail on another vast whopper in praise o' the father whose story
we knowed.
When Skipper Harry come below again, he clapped a hand on Anthony
Lot's shoulder in a way that jarred the man.
"Time you was stowed away in bed," says he.
Anthony took the hint. "I was jus' 'lowin' t' go ashore," says he.
"You comin' along, Sammy?"
"I don't know," says Sammy. "I isn't quite tired of it here as yet."
"Well, now, I calls that complimentary!" says the skipper; "an' I'm
inclined to indulge you. What say, Tumm? Mm-m? What say t' this here
young gentleman?"
"I'm fond o' company," says I, "if 'tis genteel."
"Come, now, be candid!" says the skipper. "Is you suited with the
company you is offered?"
"'Tis genteel enough for me."
"Aw, you is jus' pokin' fun at me," says the lad. "I don't like it."
"I is not neither!" says I.
"I--I wish I could stay, sir," says Sammy t' the skipper. "Jus',
sir--jus' for a little small while. I--I----"
'Twas a plea. Skipper Harry cocked his ear in wonder. It seemed t' me
that the lad had a purpose in mind.
"Well?" says the skipper.
The lad begun t' pant with a question, an' then, in a fright, t' lick
his lips.
"Well, sir," says he, "I wants t' ask--I--I jus' got the notion
t'----"
"Anthony," says the skipper, "your punt is frayin' the painter with
eagerness t' be off t' bed."
With that Anthony went ashore.
"Now, son," says the skipper, "they're havin' a wonderful mug-up in
the forecastle. You go for'ard an' have a cup o' tea. 'Tis a cup o'
tea that you wants, not the company o' me an' Mister Tumm, an' I knows
it. You have a little scoff with the men, my son, an' then one o' the
lads will put you ashore. You might come back for breakfast, too, an
you is hungry again by that time."
"I'd as lief stay here," says Sammy.
"Oh, no," says the skipper; "you go for'ard an' have a nice cup o' tea
with a whole lot o' white sugar in it."
"I'd like that."
"Sure, you would!"
"Is I t' have as much sugar as I wants?"
"You is, my son."
"May I tell the cook, sir, that 'tis by your leave an' orders?"
"Ay, my son."
The lad made t' go, with a duck of his head t' the skipper; but then
he stopped an' faced about.
"Goin' t' turn in?" says he.
"No, son."
"By your leave, then," says the lad, "I'll be back t' bid you good
night an' thank you afore I goes ashore."
"That's polite, my son. Pray do."
By this time the lad was skippin' up t' the deck an' Hard Harry was
scowlin' with the trouble o' some anxious thought.
"Son!" says the skipper.
The lad turned.
"Sir?"
"An I was you," says Skipper Harry, "I wouldn't tell the lads up
for'ard what my name was."
"You wouldn't?"
The skipper shook his head.
"Not me," says he.
"That's queer."
"Anyhow, I wouldn't."
"Why not, sir?"
"Oh, well, nothin' much," says the skipper. "You don't have to, do
you? I 'low I jus' wouldn't do it. That's all."
The lad jumped into the cabin an' shook his wee fist in the skipper's
face. "No, I don't have to," says he in a fury; "but I wants to, an'
I will if I wants to! I'm not ashamed o' the name I wear!" An' he
leaped up the ladder; an' when he had reached the deck, he turned an'
thrust his head back, an' he called down t' the skipper, "Forgive my
fault, sir!" An' then we heared his feet patter on the deck as he run
for'ard.
* * * * *
Well, well, well, now, 'tis a sentimental tale, truly! I fears 'twill
displease the majority--this long yarn o' the little mystery o'
Hide-an'-Seek Harbor. 'Tis a remarkable thing, I grant, t' thrust a
wee lad like Sammy Scull so deep into the notice o' folk o' parts an'
prominence; an' it may be, though I doubt it, that little codgers like
he, snarled up in the coil o' their small lives, win no favor with the
wealthy an' learned. I've told the tale more than once, never t' folk
o' consequence, as now, occupied with affairs o' great gravity, with
no time t' waste in the company o' far-away little shavers--I've never
told the tale t' such folk at all, but only to the lowly of our coast,
with the forecastle bogie warm of a windy night, an' the schooner
hangin' on in the rain off the cliffs, or with us all settled afore a
kitchen fire in a cottage ashore, of a winter's night, which is the
most favorable hour, I've found out, for the tellin' o' tales like
mine; an' the folk for whose pleasure I've spun this yarn have thought
the fate o' wee Sammy worth their notice an' sighs, an' have thrilled
me with wonder an' praise. I'm well warned that gentlefolk t' the
s'uth'ard must have love in their tales an' be charmed with great
deeds in its satisfaction; but I'm a skillful teller o' tales, as I've
been told in high quarters, an' as I've good reason t' believe,
indeed, with my own common sense and discretion t' clap me on the
back, an' so I'll speed on with my sentimental tale to its endin',
whether happy or not, an' jus' damn the scoffers in private.
"The little nipper," says the skipper. "His fist tapped the tip o' my
nose!"
I laughed outright at that. 'Twas a good rebound from the start I had
had.
"What stirred his wrath?"
"It might be one thing that I knows of," says I, "an' it might be
another that I could guess."
"I'm puzzled, Tumm."
"As for me, I've the eyes of a hawk, sir," says I, "with which t'
search a mystery like this."
"That you has!" says he.
I was fond o' Skipper Harry. He was a perceivin' man. An' I've no mind
t' withhold the opinion I maintain t' that effect.
"You've fathomed the lad's rage?" says he.
"An I was still shrewder," says I, "I'd trust a surmise an' lay a
wager that I was right."
"What do you think?"
"I've two opinions. They balance. I'll hold with neither 'til I'm sure
o' the one."
"Not ashamed of his name!" says the skipper. "Ha! 'Twas a queer boast
t' make. He'll be ashamed of his name soon enough. 'Tis a wonder
they've not told un the truth afore this. What you think, Tumm? How
have they managed t' keep the truth from un until now?"
"They think un comical," says I; "they keeps un ignorant t' rouse
their laughter with."
"Ay," says the skipper; "he've been fattened like a goose in a cage.
They've made a sad fool of un these last few years. What boastin'!
'Tis stupid. He've growed old enough t' know better, Tumm. 'Tis jus'
disgustin' t' hear a big boy like he mouth such a shoal o' foolish
yarns. An' he've not the least notion that they're not as true as
Gospel an' twice as entertainin'."
"So?" says I. "Where's my flute?"
"There'll come a time afore long when he'll find out all of a sudden
about his pa. Whew!"
I found my flute an' stretched myself out on the counter t' draw
comfort from tootin' it.
"Somebody'll blunder," says the skipper. "Some poor damn' fool."
"Is I ever played you Nellie was a Lady?"
"'Tis awful!"
"'Tis not," says I. "'Tis a popular ballad an' has many good points."
"I don't mean the ballad, Tumm," says he. "Play it an you wants to.
Don't sing it, though, I'm too bothered t' tolerate more confusion
this night. The more I thinks o' the mess that that poor lad's in the
worse I grieves. Man alive, 'tis a terrible business altogether! If
they hadn't praised his father so high--if they hadn't teached the lad
t' think that he'd write a letter or come home again--if the lad
wasn't jus' the loyal little nipper that he is! I tell you, Tumm, that
lad's sheer daft with admiration of his pa. He've lifted his pa above
God Almighty. When he finds out the truth, he'll fall down and scream
in agony, an' he'll die squirmin', too. I can fair hear un now--an'
see un writhe in pain."
All this while I was whisperin' in my flute. 'Twas a comfort t' ease
my mood in that way.
"I can't bear t' think of it, Tumm," says the skipper. "'Tis the
saddest thing ever I heared of. I wish we'd never dropped anchor in
Hide-an'-Seek Harbor."
"I don't," says I.
"Then you've a heart harder than rock," says he.
"Come, now," says I; "have done with the matter. 'Tis no affair o'
yours, is it?"
"The lad mustn't find out the truth."
"Can you stop the mouth o' the whole wide world?"
"You knows very well that I can't."
"I'm not so sure that 'twould be wise t' withhold the truth," says I.
"'Tis a mystery t' me--wisdom an' folly in a case like this. Anyhow,"
says I, givin' free course, in the melancholy that possessed me, to an
impulse o' piety, "God Almighty knows how t' manage His world. An' as
I looks at your face, an' as I listens t' your complaint," says I,
"I'm willin' t' wager that He've got His plan worked near t' the point
o' perfection at this very minute."
"Tell me how, Tumm."
"I'll leave you to brood on it," says I, "whilst I plays my flute."
Skipper Harry brooded whilst I tooted Toby Farr's woeful song called
The Last Man o' the _Fore-an'-After_:
When the schooner struck the rock,
She was splintered by the shock;
An' the breakers didn't ask for leave or token.
No! They hove un, man an' kid,
Slap ag'in the cliff, they did,
An' kep' heavin' 'til the bones of all was broken!
"Skipper Harry," says I, then, puttin' aside my ol' flute, "doesn't
you know what you can do t' help that lad out o' trouble for good an
'all?"
"I wish I did, Tumm."
"Is you as stupid as all that?"
"I isn't stupid as a usual thing," says he. "My wits is all scattered
with rage an' sadness. That's the only trouble."
"Well," says I, "all you got t' do----"
Skipper Harry warned me.
"Hist!"
The lad was half way down the companion. I mind, as a man will recall,
sometimes, harkin' back t' the crest an' close of a livin' tale like
this poor yarn o' the little mystery o' Hide-an'-Seek Harbor, that
there was wind in the riggin' an' black rain on the roof o 'the cabin.
An' when I thinks of it all, as think of it I does, meanderin' along
with my friendly ol' flute, of an evenin' in the fall o' the year,
when trade's done an' the shelves is all put t' rights, I hears that
undertone o' patter an' splash an' sigh. There was that in the lad's
face t' stir an ache in the heart of a sentimental ol' codger like me;
an' when I seed the grim lines an' gray color of it, an' when I caught
the sorrow an' pride it uttered, as the lad halted, in doubt, peerin'
at Skipper Harry in the hope of a welcome below, I knowed that my
surmise was true. 'Twas a vision I had, I fancy--a flash o'
revelation, such as may come, as some part o' the fortune they
inherit, to habitual tellers o' tales o' the old an' young like me. A
wee lad, true--Hide-an'-Seek born, an' fated the worst; yet I
apprehended, all at once, the confusion he dwelt alone in, an' felt
the weight o' the burden he carried alone; an' I must honor the
courage an' good pride of his quality. Ay, I knows he was young! I
knows that well enough! Nay, my sirs an' gentlefolk--I'm not makin'
too much of it!
"Ah-ha!" says the skipper. "Here you is, eh? Come below, sir, an' feel
welcome aboard."
Well, the lad come down with slow feet; an' then he stood before
Skipper Harry like a culprit.
"Is you had your cup o' tea?" says the skipper.
"Yes, sir. I thanks you, sir, for my cup o' tea."
"Sugar in it?"
"Yes, sir."
"All you wanted?"
"As much as my need, sir, an' more than my deserts."
Skipper Harry clapped un on the back.
"All nonsense!" says he. "You're no judge o' your deserts. They're a
good round measure, I'll be bound!"
"They isn't, sir."
"No more o' that! You is jus' as worthy----"
"No, I isn't!"
"Well, then, have it your own way," says the skipper. "Is you comin'
back for breakfast in the mornin'? That's what I wants t' know."
"No, sir."
Skipper Harry jumped.
"What's that?" says he. "Why not?"
"I've shamed your goodness, sir."
"Bosh!" says the skipper.
The lad's lips was dry. He licked 'em. An' his throat was dry. He
gulped. An' his voice was hoarse.
"I been lyin' t' you," says he.
"You been----"
All at once the lad's voice went shrill as a maid's. 'Twas distressful
t' hear.
"Lyin' t' you, sir!" says he. "I been lyin' t' you jus' like mad! An'
now you'll not forgive me!"
"Tumm," says the skipper, "this is a very queer thing. I can't make it
out."
I could.
"No harm in easin' the conscience freely," says I t' the lad. "What
you been lyin' about?"
"Heed me well, sir!" This t' the skipper.
"Ay, my son?"
"I isn't got no pa! My pa's dead! My pa was hanged by the neck until
he was dead for the murder o' Mean Michael Mitchell o' Topsail Run!"