Newf'un'land knowed it. Seven years afore--the hangin' was done. Sammy
Scull was a baby o' three at the time. 'Twas a man's crime, whatever,
if a man an' a crime can be linked with satisfaction. Still an' all,
'twas a murder, an' a foul, foul deed for that reason. We've few
murders in Newf'un'land. They shock us. They're never forgotten. An'
there was a deal made o' that one, an' 'twas still the latest
murder--news o' the trial at St. John's spread broadcast over the
three coasts; an' talk o' the black cap an' the black flag, an'
gruesome tales o' the gallows an' the last prayer, an' whispers o' the
quicklime that ended it all. Sammy Scull could go nowhere in
Newf'un'land an' escape the shadow an' shame o' that rope. Let the lad
grow t' manhood? No matter. Let un live it down? He could not. The
tongues o' the gossips would wag in his wake wheresoever he went. Son
of John Scull o' Hide-an'-Seek Harbor! Why, sir, the man's father was
hanged by the neck at St. John's for the murder o' Mean Michael
Mitchell o' Topsail Run!
Skipper Harry put a hand on Sammy Scull's head.
"My son," says he, "is you quite sure about what you've jus' told us?"
"Yes, sir."
"How long is you knowed it?"
"Oh, a long, long time, sir! I learned it of a dirty day in the fall
o' last year. Isn't it--isn't it true, sir?"
Skipper Harry nodded.
"Ay, my son," says he; "'tis quite true."
"Oh, my poor pa!"
Skipper Harry put a finger under the lad's chin an' tipped up his
face.
"Who tol' you?" says he.
"I found a ol' newspaper, sir, in Sandy Spot's bureau, sir, where I
was forbid t' pry, sir, an' I read all about it. My pa left one child
named Samuel when he was hanged by the neck--an' that's me."
"You've told nobody what you learned?"
"No, sir."
"Why not?"
"I'd liefer pretend not t' know, sir, when they baited me, an' so save
myself shame."
"Jus' so, my son."
"An' I jus' lied an' lied an' lied!"
"Mm-m."
Skipper Harry lifted the lad t' the counter, then, an' bent to a level
with his eyes.
"Look me in the eye, son," says he. "I've a grave word t' say t' you.
Will you listen well an' ponder?"
"I'll ponder, sir, an you'll jus' forgive my fault."
"Sammy, my son," says the skipper, "I forgives it freely. Now, listen
t' me. Is you listenin'? Well, now, I knows a snug harbor t' the south
o' this. Tis called Yesterday Cove. An' in the harbor is a cottage,
an' in the cottage is a woman; an' the woman is ample an' kind. She've
no lad of her own--that kind, ample woman. She've only a husband.
That's me. An' I been thinkin'----"
I stirred myself.
"I 'low I'll meander for'ard," says I, "an' have a cup o' tea with the
hands."
"Do, Tumm," says the skipper.
* * * * *
Well, now, I went for'ard t' have my cup o' tea an' brood on this
sorry matter. 'Twas plain, however, what was in the wind; an' when I
went aft again, an' begun t' meander along, breathin' the sad strains
o' Toby Farr's songs on my flute, the thing had come t' pass, though
no word was said about it. There was the skipper an' wee Sammy Scull,
yarnin' t'gether like ol' cronies--the lad with his ears an' eyes
wide t' the tale that Hard Harry was tellin'. I jus' wet my whistle
with a drop o' water, t' limber my lips for the music, an' whispered
away on my flute; but as I played I must listen, an' as I listened I
was astonished, an' presently I give over my tootin' altogether, the
better t' hearken t' the wild yarn that Hard Harry was spinnin'. 'Twas
a yarn that was well knowed t' me. Man alive! Whew! 'Twas a tax on the
belief--that yarn! Ay, I had heared it afore--the yarn o' how Hard
Harry had chopped a way t' the crest of an iceberg in foul weather t'
spy out a course above the fog, an' o' how he had split the berg in
two with the last blow of his ax, an' falled safe between the halves,
an' swimmed aboard his schooner in a gale o' wind; an' though I had
heared the tale verified by others, I never could swallow it whole at
all, but deemed it the cleverest whopper that ever a man had invented
in play.
When Skipper Harry had done, the lad turned t' me, his face in a flush
o' pride.
"Mister Tumm!" says he.
"Sir t' you?" says I.
"Is you listenin' t' me?"
"I is."
"Well, then, you listen an' learn. That's what I wants _you_ t' do."
"I'll learn all I can," says I. "What is it?"
Sammy Scull slapped his knee. An' he laughed a free ripple o' glee
an' looked Skipper Harry over whilst he vowed the truth of his words.
"I'll lay my liver an' lights on it," says he, "that I got the boldest
pa...."
That's all.
* * * * *
VIII
SMALL SAM SMALL
* * * * *
VIII
SMALL SAM SMALL
We were lying snug from the wind and sea in Right-an'-Tight Cove--the
Straits shore of the Labrador--when Tumm, the clerk of the _Quick as
Wink_, trading the northern outports for salt cod in fall weather,
told the engaging tale of Small Sam Small, of Whooping Harbor. It was
raining. This was a sweeping downpour, sleety and thick, driving, as
they say in those parts, from a sky as black as a wolf's throat. There
was no star showing; there were cottage lights on the hills
ashore--warm and human little glimmers in the dark--but otherwise a
black confusion all round about. The wind, running down from the
northwest, tumbled over the cliff, and swirled, bewildered and angry,
in the lee of it. Riding under Lost Craft Head, in this black turmoil,
the schooner shivered a bit; and she droned aloft, and she whined
below, and she restlessly rose and fell in the soft swell that came
spent and frothy from the wide open through Run Away Tickle. But for
all we in the forecastle knew of the bitter night--of the roaring
white seas and a wind thick and stinging with spume snatched from the
long crests--it was blowing a moonlit breeze aboard. The forecastle
lamp burned placidly; and the little stove was busy with its
accustomed employment--laboring with much noisy fuss in the display of
its genial accomplishments. Skipper and crew--and Tumm, the clerk, and
I--lounged at ease in the glow and warmth. No gale from the nor'west,
blow as it would in fall weather, could trouble the _Quick as Wink_,
lying at anchor under Lost Craft Head in Right-an'-Tight Cove of the
Labrador.
"When a man lays hold on a little strand o' human wisdom," said Tumm,
breaking a heavy muse, "an' hangs his whole weight to it," he added,
with care, "he've no cause t' agitate hisself with surprise if the
rope snaps."
"What's _this_ preachin'?" the skipper demanded.
"That ain't no preachin'," said Tumm, resentfully "'tis a _fact_."
"Well," the skipper complained, "what you want t' go an' ask a hard
question like that for?"
"Sittin' here in the forecastle o' the ol' _Quick as Wink_, in this
here black gale from the nor'west," said Tumm, "along o' four
disgruntled dummies an' a capital P passenger in the doldrums, I been
thinkin' o' Small Sam Small o' Whoopin' Harbor. 'This here world,
accordin' as she's run,' says Small Sam Small, 'is no fit place for a
decent man t' dwell. The law o' life, as I was teached it,' says he,
'is _Have_; but as I sees the needs o' men, Tumm, it ought t' be
_Give_. T' _have_--t' _take_ an' t' _keep_--breaks a good man's heart
in the end. He lies awake in the night, Tumm--in the company of his
own heart--an' he isn't able t' forget jus' how he _got_. I'm no great
admirer o' the world, an' I isn't very fond o' life,' says he; 'but I
knows the law o' life, an' lives the best I can accordin' t' the rules
I've learned. I was cast out t' make my way as a wee small lad; an' I
was teached the law o' life by harsh masters--by nights' labor, an'
kicks, an' robbery, Tumm, by wind, an' cold, an' great big seas, by a
empty belly, an' the fear o' death in my small heart. So I'm a mean
man. I'm the meanest man in Newf'un'land. They says my twin sister
died o' starvation at the age o' two months along o' my greed. May be:
I don't know--but I hopes I never was born the mean man I is. Anyhow,'
says he, 'Small Sam Small--that's me--an' I stands by! I'm a damned
mean man, an' I isn't unaware; but they isn't a man on the St. John's
waterside--an' they isn't a big-bug o' Water Street--can say t' _me_,
"Do this, ye bay-noddie!" or, "Do that, ye bankrupt out-porter!" or,
"Sign this, ye coast's whelp!" Still an' all, Tumm,' says he, 'I don't
like myself very much, an' I isn't very fond o' the company o' the
soul my soul's become.'
"'Never you mind, Sam Small,' says I; 'we've all done dirty tricks in
our time.'
"'All?'
"'Never a mother's son in all the world past fourteen years,' says I,
'hasn't a ghost o' wicked conduct t' haunt his hours alone.'
"'You, too, Tumm?'
"'_Me?_' says I. 'Good Heavens!'
"'Uh-huh,' says he. 'I 'low; but that don't comfort _me_ so very much.
You see, Tumm, I got t' live with myself, an' bein' quite well
acquainted with myself, I don't _like_ to. They isn't much domestic
peace in my ol' heart; an' they isn't no divorce court I ever heared
tell of, neither here nor hereafter, in which a man can free hisself
from his own damned soul.'
"'Never you mind,' says I.
"'Uh-huh,' says he. 'You see, I _don't_ mind. I--I--I jus' don't
_dast_! But if I could break the law, as I've been teached it,' says
he, 'they isn't nothin' in the world I'd rather do, Tumm, than found a
norphan asylum.'
"'Maybe you will,' says I.
"'Too late,' says he; 'you see, I'm fashioned.'
"He was."
Tumm laughed a little.
* * * * *
Tumm warned us: "You'll withhold your pity for a bit, I 'low. 'Tis not
yet due ol' Small Sam Small." He went on: "Small? An'--an' ecod! Small
Sam Small! He gained the name past middle age, they says, long afore I
knowed un; an' 'tis a pretty tale, as they tells it. He skippered the
_Last Chance_--a Twillingate fore-an'-after, fishin' the Labrador,
hand an' trap, between the Devil's Battery an' the Barnyards--the Year
o' the Third Big Haul. An' it seems he fell in love with the cook. God
save us! Sam Small in love with the cook! She was the on'y woman
aboard, as it used t' be afore the law was made for women; an' a sweet
an' likely maid, they says--a rosy, dimpled, good-natured lass,
hailin' from down Chain Tickle way, but over-young an' trustful, as it
turned out, t' be voyagin' north t' the fishin' with the likes o'
Small Sam Small. A hearty maid, they says--blue-eyed an' flaxen--good
for labor an' quick t' love. An' havin' fell in love with her,
whatever, Small Sam Small opened his heart for a minute, an' give her
his silver watch t' gain her admiration. 'You'll never tell the crew,
my dear,' says he, 'that I done such a foolish thing!' So the maid
stowed the gift in her box--much pleased, the while, they says, with
Small Sam Small--an' said never a word about it. She'd a brother t'
home, they says--a wee bit of a chappie with a lame leg--an' thinks
she, 'I'll give Billy my silver watch.'
"But Sam Small, bein' small, repented the gift; an' when the _Last
Chance_ dropped anchor in Twillingate harbor, loaded t' the gunwales
with green fish, he come scowlin' on deck.
"'They isn't none o' you goin' ashore yet,' says he.
"'Why not?' says they.
"'They isn't none o' you goin' ashore,' says he, 'afore a constable
comes aboard.'
"'What you wantin' a constable for?' says they.
"'They isn't none o' you goin' ashore afore this schooner's searched,'
says he. 'My silver watch is stole.'
"'Stole!' says they.
"'Ay,' says he; 'somebody's took my silver watch.'"
Tumm paused.
"Tumm," the skipper of the _Quick as Wink_ demanded, "what become o'
that there little maid from Chain Tickle?"
"Well," Tumm drawled, "the maid from Chain Tickle had her baby in
jail....
* * * * *
"You see," Tumm ran along, in haste to be gone from this tragedy, "Sam
Small _was_ small--almighty small an' mean. A gray-faced ol'
skinflint--an' knowed for such: knowed from Chidley t' Cape Race an'
the Newf'un'land Grand Banks as the meanest wolf the Almighty ever
made the mistake o' lettin' loose in a kindly world--knowed for the
same in every tap-room o' the St. John's waterside, from the Royal
George t' the Anchor an' Chain--a lean, lanky, hunch-shouldered,
ghastly ol' codger in Jews' slops an' misfits, with a long white
beard, a scrawny neck, lean chops, an' squintin' little eyes, as green
an' cold as an iceberg in gray weather. Honest or dishonest?--ecod!
what matter? They's nothin' so wicked as meanness. But the law hadn't
cotched un: for the law winks with both eyes. 'I'm too old for crime
now, an' too rich,' says he; 'but I've worked hard, accordin' t' the
law o' life, as she was teached me, an' I've took chances in my time.
When I traveled the outports in my youth,' says he, 'I sold liquor for
green paint an' slep' with the constable; an' the socks o' the outport
fishermen, Tumm,' says he, 'holds many a half-dollar I coined in my
Whoopin' Harbor days.' He'd no piety t' save his soul. 'No church for
me,' says he; 'you see, I'm no admirer o' the handiwork o' God. Git,
keep, an' have,' says he; 'that's the religion o' my youth, an' I'll
never despite the teachin' o' them years.' Havin' no bowels o'
compassion, he'd waxed rich in his old age. 'Oh,' says he, 'I'm savin'
along, Tumm--I'm jus' savin' along so-so for a little job I got t'
do.' Savin' along? He'd two schooners fishin' the Labrador in the
season, a share in a hundred-ton banker, stock in a south coast
whale-factory, God knows how much yellow gold in the bank, an' a round
interest in the swiler _Royal Bloodhound_, which he skippered t' the
ice every spring o' the year.
"'So-so,' says he; 'jus' savin' along so-so.'
"'So-so!' says I; 'you're _rich_, Skipper Sammy.'
"'I'm not jus' in agreement with the plan o' the world as she's run,'
says he; 'but if I've a fortune t' ease my humor, I 'low the Lord gets
even, after all.'
"'How so?' says I.
"'If I'm blessed with a taste for savin', Tumm,' says he, 'I'm cursed
with a thirst for liquor.'
"'Twas true enough, I 'low. The handiwork o' God, in the matter o'
men's hearts, is by times beyond me t' fathom. For look you! a poor
devil will want This an' crave That when This an' That are spittin'
cat an' growlin' dog. They's small hope for a man's peace in a mess
like that. A lee shore, ecod!--breakers t' le'ward an' a brutal big
wind jumpin' down from the open sea. Thirst an' meanness never yet
kep' agreeable company. 'Tis a wonderful mess, ecod! when the Almighty
puts the love of a penny in a mean man's heart an' tunes his gullet t'
the appreciation o' good Jamaica rum. An' I never knowed a man t'
carry a more irksome burden of appetite than Small Sam Small o'
Whoopin' Harbor. 'Twas fair horrible t' see. Cursed with a taste for
savin', ay, an' cursed, too, with a thirst for good Jamaica rum! I've
seen his eyes glitter an' his tongue lick his lips at the sight of a
bottle; an' I've heared un groan, an' seed his face screw up, when he
pinched the pennies in his pocket an' turned away from the temptation
t' spend. It hurt un t' the backbone t' pull a cork; he squirmed when
his dram got past his Adam's apple. An', Lord! how the outport crews
would grin t' see un trickle little drops o' liquor into his belly--t'
watch un shift in his chair at the Anchor an' Chain, an' t' hear un
grunt an' sigh when the dram was down.
"But Small Sam Small was no toper. Half-seas-over jus' on'y once. It
cost un dear.
* * * * *
"I sailed along o' Cap'n Sammy," Tumm resumed, "on the swilin' v'yage
in the spring o' the Year o' the Westerly Gales. I mind it well: I've
cause. The _Royal Bloodhound_: a stout an' well-found craft. An' a
spry an' likely crew: Sam Small never lacked the pick o' the
swilin'-boys when it come t' fittin' out for the ice in the spring o'
the year. He'd get his load o' fat with the cleverest skippers of un
all; an' the wily skippers o' the fleet would tag the ol' rat through
the ice from Battle Harbor t' the Grand Banks. 'Small Sam Small,' says
they, 'will nose out them swiles.' An' Small Sam Small done it every
spring o' the year. No clothes off for Small Sam Small! 'Twas tramp
the deck, night an' day. 'Twas 'How's the weather?' at midnight an'
noon. 'Twas the crow's-nest at dawn. 'Twas squintin' little green eyes
glued t' the glass the day long. An' 'twas 'Does you see un, lads?'
forever an' all; an' 'twas '_Damme, where's that fat?_' But 'twas now
Sam Small's last v'yage, says he; he'd settle down when he made port
again, an' live free an' easy in his old age, with a good fire t' warm
his bones, an' a bottle at his elbow for reasonable sippin' of a cold
night. A man should loosen up in his old age, says he; an' God
grantin' him bloody decks an' a profitable slaughter, that v'yage,
he'd settle down for good an' never leave port again. He was tired,
says he; he was old--an' he was all tired out--and he'd use the
comfort he'd earned in all them years o' labor an' savin'. Wasn't so
much in life, after all, for a old man like him, says he, except a
fireside chair, or a seat in the sunlight, with a nip o' the best
Jamaica, watered t' the taste.
"'You come along o' me as mate, Tumm,' says he, 'an' I'll fill your
pocket.'
"'I'm not averse t' cash,' says I.
"'These here ol' bones creaks out t' the ice for _swiles_,' says he,
'an' not for the pleasures o' cruisin'.'
"'I'll ship, Skipper Sammy,' says I. 'I'll ship with the skipper that
gets the fat.'
"'You hails from Chain Tickle?' says he.
"'I does.'
"'Tumm,' says he, 'I'm a old man, an' I'm downcast in these last days;
an' I been 'lowin', somehow, o' late, that a dash o' young blood in my
whereabouts might cheer me up. I 'low, Tumm,' says he, 'you don't know
a likely lad t' take along t' the ice an' break in for his own good?
Fifteen years or so? I'd berth un well aboard the _Bloodhound_.'
"'I does,' says I.
"'You might fetch un,' says he; 'nothin' like young blood t' cheer the
aged.'
"'I'll fetch un quick enough, Skipper Sammy,' says I, 'if you'll stand
by my choice.'
"'As I knowed you would, Tumm,' says he, 'you takes me cleverly.'
"It wasn't long after that afore a young lad I knowed in Chain Tickle
come shoutin' down t' St. John's. A likely lad, too: blue-eyed,
tow-headed, an' merry--the likes of his mother, a widow. No liar, no
coward, no pinch-a-penny: a fair, frank-eyed, lovable little
rascal--a forgiven young scapegrace--with no mind beyond the love an'
livin' jollity o' the day. Hang the morrow! says he; the morrow might
do very well, he'd be bound, when it come. Show _him_ the fun o' the
minute. An' he had a laugh t' shame the dumps--a laugh as catchin' as
smallpox. 'Ecod!' thinks I; 'it may very well be that Sam Small will
smile.' A brave an' likely lad: with no fear o' the devil
hisself--nor overmuch regard, I'm thinkin', for the chastisements o'
God Almighty--but on'y respect for the wish of his own little mother,
who was God enough for he. 'What!' says he; 'we're never goin' t' sea
with Sam Small. Small Sam Small? Sam Small, the skinflint?' But he
took a wonderful fancy t' Small Sam Small; an' as for Skipper
Sammy--why--Skipper Sammy loved the graceless rogue on sight. 'Why,
Tumm,' says he, 'he's jus' like a gentleman's son. Why 'tis--'tis
like a nip o' rum--'tis as good as a nip o' the best Jamaica--t' clap
eyes on a fair, fine lad like that. Is you marked his eyes,
Tumm?--saucy as blood an' riches. They fair bored me t' the soul like
Sir Harry McCracken's. They's blood behind them eyes--blood an' a
sense o' wealth. An' his strut! Is you marked the strut, Tumm?--the
very air of a game-cock in a barnyard. It takes a gentleman born t'
walk like that. I tells you, Tumm, with wealth t' back un--with
wealth t' back body an' brain an' blue blood like that--the lad would
be a lawyer at twenty-three an' Chief Justice o' Newf'un'land at
thirty-seven. You mark _me_!'
"I'm thinkin', whatever, that Small Sam Small had the natural
prejudice o' fatherhood.
"'Tumm,' says he, 'he's cheered me up. Is he savin'?'
"'Try for yourself,' says I.
"Skipper Sammy put the boy t' the test, next night, at the Anchor an'
Chain. 'Lad,' says he, 'here's the gift o' half a dollar.'
"'For _me_, Skipper Sammy?' says the lad. ''Tis as much as ever I had
in my life. Have a drink.'
"'Have a _what_?'
"'You been wonderful good t' me, Skipper Sammy,' says the lad, 'an' I
wants t' buy you a glass o' good rum.'
"'Huh!' says Small Sam Small; ''tis expensive.'
"'Ay,' says the lad; 'but what's a half-dollar _for_?'
"'Well,' says Skipper Sammy, 'a careful lad like you _might_ save it.'
"The poor lad passed the half-dollar back over the table t' Small Sam
Small. 'Skipper Sammy,' says he, '_you_ save it. It fair burns my
fingers.'
"'Mary, my dear,' says Sam Small t' the barmaid, 'a couple o' nips o'
the best Jamaica you got in the house for me an' Mr. Tumm. Fetch the
lad a bottle o' ginger-ale--_im_-ported. Damn the expense, anyhow! Let
the lad spend his money as he has the notion.'
"An' Sam Small smiled.
* * * * *
"'Tumm,' says Small Sam Small, that night, when the boy was gone t'
bed, 'ecod! but the child spends like a gentleman.'
"'How's that, Skipper Sammy?'
"'Free,' says he, 'an' genial.'
"'He'll overdo it,' says I.
"'No,' says he;' 'tisn't in the blood. He'll spend what he haves--no
more. An' like a gentleman, too--free an' genial as the big-bugs. A
marvelous lad, Tumm,' says he; 'he've ab-se-_lute_-ly no regard for
money.'
"'Not he.'
"'Ecod!'
"'He'll be a comfort, Skipper Sammy,' says I, 'on the swilin' v'yage.'
"'I 'low, Tumm,' says he, 'that I've missed a lot, in my life, these
last fifteen year, through foolishness. You send the lad home,' says
he; 'he's a gentleman, an' haves no place on a swilin'-ship. An' they
isn't no sense, Tumm,' says he, 'in chancin' the life of a fair lad
like that at sea. Let un go home to his mother; _she'll_ be glad t'
see un again. A man ought t' loosen up in his old age: I'll pay. An',
Tumm--here's a two-dollar note. You tell the lad t' waste it _all_ on
bananas. This here bein' generous,' says he, 'is an expensive
diversion. I got t' save my pennies--_now_!'
* * * * *
"Well, well!" Tumm went on; "trust Small Sam Small t' be off for the
ice on the stroke o' the hour for swilers' sailin'--an' a few minutes
t' win'ward o' the law. An' the _Royal Bloodhound_ had heels, too--an'
a heart for labor. With a fair start from Seldom-Come-By, Skipper
Sammy beat the fleet t' the Funks an' t' the first drift-ice beyond.
March days: nor'westerly gales, white water an' snowy weather--an' no
let-up on the engines. Ice? Ay; big floes o' northerly ice, come down
from the Circle with current an' wind--breedin'-grounds for swile. But
there wasn't no swiles. Never the bark of a dog-hood nor the whine of
a new-born white-coat. Cap'n Sammy nosed the ice into White Bay; he
worked out above the Horse Islands; he took a peep at the Cape Norman
light an' swatched the Labrador seas. But never a swile got we. 'The
swiles,' says he, 'is t' the east an' s'uth'ard. With these here
westerly gales blowin' wild an' cold as perdition they've gone down
the Grand Banks way. The fleet will smell around here till they wears
their noses out,' says he; 'but Cap'n Sam Small is off t' the
s'uth'ard t' get his load o' fat.' An' he switched the _Royal
Bloodhound_ about, an' steamed off, with all sail spread, bound down
t' the Grand Banks in a nor'west gale, with a burst o' snow t' season
it.
"We made the northerly limits o' the Grand Banks in fog an' ca'm
weather. Black fog: thick 's mud. We lay to--butted a league into the
pack-ice. Greasy weather: a close world an' a moody glass.
"'Cap'n Sammy,' says I, on the bridge, 'there's no tellin' where a man
will strike the fat.'
"'Small chance for fat, damme!' says he, 'in fog an' broodin'
weather.'
"'Give her a show,' says I, 'an' she'll lighten.'
"'Lighten?' says he. 'Afore night, Tumm, she'll blow this fog t' the
Saragossa Sea.'
"The glass was in a mean, poor temper, an' the air was still, an'
thick, an' sweaty.
"'Blow?' says he. 'Ay; she's breedin' a naughty nor'west gale o' wind
down there.'
"It seemed t' me then I seed a shadow in the fog; an', 'Cap'n Sammy,'
says I, 'what's that off the port bow?'
"'What's what?' says he.
"'That patch o' black in the mist.'
"'Tumm,' says he, 'you might tweak the toot-rope.'
"The _Royal Bloodhound_ hadn't opened her mouth afore there came a
howl from the mist.
"Cap'n Sammy jumped. 'What d'ye make o' that?' says he.
"'I make a ship,' says I.
"He lifted his hand. 'Hark!' says he.
"Whatever she was, she was yellin' for help like a bull in a bog.
"'Whoo-o-o-oo! Whoo, whoo! Whoo-o-oo-_ugh_!'
"Cap'n Sammy grinned. 'I make a tramp cotched fast in the ice,' says
he.
"'Whoo-o-oo-_ugh_! Whoo, whoo, whoo, whoo-o-_oop_!'
"'I make a tramp,' says he, rubbin' his hands, 'with her propeller
ripped off.'
"I reached a hand for the rope.
"'Hol' on!' says he; 'you keep your hook off that there whistle.'
"'I was thinkin',' says I, 't' speed a message o' comfort.'
"'Let her beller a bit, ye dunderhead!' says he.
"'What for?' says I.
"'T' make sure in her own mind,' says he, 'that she needs a kindly
hand t' help her.'