jerk that yelpin' tramp, had she lost her propeller--as well she
might, poor helpless lady o' fashion! in that slob-ice--'twould be
easy enough t' rip her through a league o' the floe t' open water,
with a charge or two o' good black powder t' help.
"'Tumm,' says Cap'n Sammy, by an' by, 'how's the glass?'
"'She've the look an' conduct o' the devil, sir.'
"'Good!' says he. 'I hopes she kicks the bottom out. You might go so
far as t' give that bellerin' ironclad a toot.'
"I tooted.
"'You come along o' me, Tumm,' says he, 'an' learn how t' squeeze a
lemon.'
"Cap'n Sammy kep' explodin' in little chuckles, like a bunch o'
Queen's-birthday firecrackers, as we trudged the ice toward the
howlin' ship in the mist. 'Twas a hundred fathoms o' rough goin', I
promise you, that northern slob, in which the tramp an' the _Royal
Bloodhound_ lay neighbors; an' 'twas mixed with hummocks an' bergs,
an' 'twas all raftered an' jammed by the westerly gales o' that
season. After dawn then; an' 'twas a slow, greasy dawn, I mind. But
the yellow light growed fast in the fog; an' the mist thinned in a
whiff o' wind from the nor'west. 'Twould lift, by an' by: a clean,
gray day. 'Every man for hisself,' says Cap'n Sammy, as we drawed
near, 'an' the devil take the hindmost. She's a likely-lookin' craft.
Pinched fast, too. An' the weather-glass kickin' at its foundations!
Eh, Tumm? Every man for hisself.' It turned out Cap'n Sammy was right.
She was a tramp, the _Claymore_, two thousand tons, outbound from
Liverpool t' Canadian ports, loaded deep, an' now tight in the grip o'
the ice. In a big blow o' wind her iron sides would yield like paper
t' the crush o' the pack. An' if the signs read true that blow was
brewin' in the nor'west. 'Twas breezin' up, down there, with the sky
in a saucy temper. From the deck o' the _Claymore_ I looked t' the
west, where the little puffs o' wind was jumpin' from, an' t' the sour
sky, an' roundabout upon the ice; an' I was glad I wasn't shipped
aboard that thin-skinned British tramp, but was mate of a
swilin'-steamer, Newf'un'land built, with sixteen-inch oak sides, an'
thrice braced with oak in the bows. She was spick an' span, that big
black tramp, fore an' aft, aloft an' below; but in a drive o'
ice--with the wind whippin' it up, an' the night dark, an' the pack a
livin', roarin' whirlpool o' pans an' bergs--white decks an' polished
brass don't count for much. 'Tis a stout oak bottom, then, that makes
for peace o' mind.
"Cap'n Wrath, at your service, sir: a close-whiskered, bristly,
pot-bellied little Britisher in brass buttons an' blue. 'Glad t' know
you, Cap'n Small,' says he. 'You've come in the nick o' time, sir. How
near can you steam with that ol' batterin'-ram o' yours?'
"'That ol' _what_?' says Cap'n Sammy.
"'Here, some o' you!' Cap'n Wrath yelled t' the crew; 'get a line----'
"'Hol' on!' says Cap'n Sammy; 'no hurry.'
"Cap'n Wrath jumped.
"'Got yourself in a nice mess, isn't you?' says Cap'n Sammy. 'An' in
these busy times, too, for us poor swilers. Lost your propeller, isn't
you?'
"'No, sir.'
"'Ah-ha!' says Cap'n Sammy. 'Got a weak blade, eh? Got a crack
somewheres in the works, I'll be bound! An' you dassen't use your
propeller in this here slob-ice, eh? Scared o' your for'ard plates,
too, isn't you? An' you wants a tow, doesn't you? You wants me t' take
chances with my blades, eh, an' bruise my poor ol' bows, buckin' this
here ice, t' perk your big yelpin' ship t' open water afore the gale
nips you?'
"Cap'n Wrath cocked his red head.
"'Well,' says Cap'n Sammy, 'know what _I_ wants? I wants a dram o'
rum.'
"Cap'n Wrath laughed. 'Haw, haw, haw!' says he. An' he jerked a thumb
for the ship's boy. Seemed t' think Cap'n Sammy was a ol' wag.
"'We better have that rum in your pretty little cabin,' says Cap'n
Sammy, 'an' have it quick, for the weather don't favor delay. I'll
want more, an' you'll need more, afore we strikes our bargain. Anyhow,
I'm a wonderful hand with a bottle,' says he, 'when it ain't my
bottle.'
"'Haw, haw! Very good, indeed, sir!' says Cap'n Wrath. 'I missed your
wink, sir.'
"They went off then, arm in arm, like ol' cronies. 'A dram o' rum, in
a little mess like this, sir,' says Cap'n Sammy, 'has heartened many a
man afore you.'
* * * * *
"When they come down from the upper deck," Tumm resumed, "Cap'n Sammy
was a bit weak in the knees. Tipsy, sir. Ay--Small Sam Small with
three sheets in the wind. Free rum an' a fair prospect o' gluttin' his
greed had overcome un for once in a way. But grim, sir--an' with
little patches o' red aflare in his dry white cheeks. An' as for Cap'n
Wrath, that poor brass-buttoned Britisher was sputterin' rage like a
Gatlin' gun.
"'A small difference of opinion, Tumm,' says Cap'n Sammy, 'over North
Atlantic towage rates. Nothin' more.'
"'Get off my ship, sir!' says Cap'n Wrath.
"'Cap'n Wrath,' says Cap'n Sammy, 'you better take a thoughtful squint
at your weather-glass.'
"Cap'n Wrath snarled.
"'You'll crumple up, an' you'll sink like scrap-iron,' says Cap'n
Sammy, 'when that black wind comes down. Take the word for it,' says
he, 'of a old skipper that knows the ice from boyhood.'
"Cap'n Wrath turned his back. Never a word from the ol' cock,
ecod!--but a speakin' sight of his blue back.
"'If you works a cracked propeller in this here heavy slob,' says
Cap'n Sammy, 'you'll lose it. An' now,' says he, 'havin' warned you
fair, my conscience is at ease.'
"'Off my ship, sir!' says Cap'n Wrath.
"''Twill cost you jus' a dollar a minute, Cap'n Wrath,' says Cap'n
Sammy, 'for delay.'
"Cap'n Wrath swung round, with that, an' fair spat rage an' misery in
Cap'n Sammy's face.
"'I'll work the _Bloodhound_ near,' says Cap'n Sammy, 'an' stand by
t' take a line. This gale will break afore noon. But give her some
leeway, t' make sure. Ay; the ice will feel the wind afore dark. The
ice will talk: it won't need no word o' mine. You'll want that line
aboard my ship, Cap'n Wrath, when the ice begins t' press. An' I'll
stand by, like a Christian skipper, at a dollar a minute for
delay'--he hauled out his timepiece--'t' save your ribs from crackin'
when they hurts you. Yelp for help when you wants to. Good-day, sir.'
He went overside. 'Item, Cap'n Wrath,' says Skipper Sammy, squintin'
up: 'to one dollar a minute for awaitin' skipper's convenience.'
"We got under way over the ice, then, for the _Royal Bloodhound_.
'Skipper Sammy,' says I, by an' by, 'was you reasonable with un?'
"'When I gets what I'm bound t' have, Tumm,' says he, 'they won't be
much juice left in that lemon.'
"'You been lappin' rum, Skipper Sammy,' says I, 'an' you mark me, your
judgment is at fault.'
"A squall o' wind near foundered the ol' feller; but he took a reef in
his coon-skin coat an' weathered it. 'I'm jus' standin' by the
teachin' o' my youth,' says he; 'an' they isn't no meanness in my
heart. Give me your hand, Tumm, an' we'll do better in these rough
places. How she blows! An' they's a chill comin' down with the wind.
My bones is old, Tumm; they hurts me, an' it seems t' me I hears un
creak. Somehow or other,' says he, 'I'm all tired out.'
"When we got aboard the _Royal Bloodhound_, Cap'n Sammy bucked the
ship within thirty fathoms of the tramp an' lay to. 'Nothin' t' do
now, Tumm,' says he, 'but take it easy. All my swilin' life,' says he,
'I been wantin' t' cotch a tramp Britisher in a mess like this; an'
now that I is cotched one, on my last cruise, I 'low I might as well
enjoy myself. I'm all in a shiver, an' I'm goin' t' have a glass o'
rum.' An' off he went to his cabin; an' there, ecod! he kep' his ol'
bones till long after noon, while the gale made up its mind t' come
down an' work its will. Some time afore dark, I found un there still,
with a bottle beside un. He was keepin' a little green eye on a Yankee
alarm-clock. 'There's another minute gone,' says he, 'an' that's
another dollar. How's the wind? Comin' down at last? Good--that's
good! 'Twon't be long afore that tramp begins t' yelp. Jus' about time
for _me_ t' have a dram o' rum, if I'm t' keep on ridin' easy. Whew!'
says he, when the dram was down, 'there's three more minutes gone, an'
that's three more dollars. Been waitin' all my swilin' life t' squeeze
a tramp; an' now I'm havin' a right good time doin' of it. I got a
expensive son t' fetch up,' says he, 'an' I needs all the money I can
lay my hooks on. There's another minute gone.' He was half-seas-over
now: not foundered--he'd ever a cautious hand with a bottle--but well
smothered. An' I've wondered since--ay, an' many's the time--jus' what
happened up Aloft t' ease off Sam Small's meanness in that hour. He'd
never been mastered afore by rum: that I'll be bound for--an' never
his own rum. 'I got a expensive son t' raise,' says he, 'an' I wants
t' lay my paws on cash. There's another minute gone!' Queer work,
this, o' the A'mighty's: rum had loosed the ol' man's greed beyond
caution; an' there sot he, in liquor, dreamin' dreams, to his death,
for the son of the flaxen girl he'd wronged.
"I stepped outside; but a squall o' soggy wind slapped me in the
face--a gust that tweaked my whiskers--an' I jumped back in a hurry t'
Skipper Sammy's cabin. 'Cap'n Sammy, sir,' says I, 'the gale's down.'
"'The wind,' says he, 'has the habit o' blowin' in March weather.'
"'I don't like it, sir,' says I.
"'Well,' says he, 'I got a young spendthrift t' fetch up, isn't I?'
"'Still an' all, sir,' says I, 'I don't like it.'
"'Damme, Tumm!' says he, 'isn't you got nothin' better t' do than
stand there carpin' at God A'mighty's wind?'
"'They's a big field o' ice t' win'ward, sir,' says I. ''Tis comin'
down with the gale; 'twill ram this pack within the hour.'
"'You stand by,' says he, 't' take a line from that tramp when she
yelps.'
"'Cap'n Sammy, sir,' says I, 'the ship lies badly. She'll never
weather----'
"'Mr. Tumm,' says he, 'you got your orders, isn't you?'
"When Cap'n Sammy fixed his little green squint on me in jus' that
frosty way I knowed my duty. 'I is, sir,' says I.
"'Then,' says he, 'h'ist your canvas. There's another minute gone!'
"By this time the wind was leapin' out o' the nor'west. Fog was come
down with the gale, too. 'Twas fallin' thick weather. Comin' on dusk,
now, too. The big, black tramp, showin' hazy lights, was changed to a
shadow in the mist. The pack had begun t' heave an' grind. I could
feel the big pans get restless. They was shiftin' for ease. I could
hear un crack. I could hear un crunch. Not much noise yet, though: not
much wind yet. But 'twas no fair prospect for the night. Open
water--in a shift o' the ice--was but half a league t' the nor'west, a
bee-line into the gale's eye. The wind had packed the slob about the
ships. It had jammed half a league o' ice against the body o' the big
pack t' the sou'east. In the nor'west, too, was another floe. 'Twas
there, in the mist, an' 'twas comin' down with the wind. It cotched
the first of the gale; 'twas free t' move, too. 'Twould overhaul us
soon enough. Ever see the ice rafter, sir? No? Well, 'tis no swift
collison. 'Tis horrible an' slow. No shock at all: jus' slow pressure.
The big pans rear. They break--an' tumble back. Fields--acres
big--slip one atop o' the other. Hummocks are crunched t' slush. The
big bergs topple over. It always makes me think o' hell, somehow--the
wind, the night, the big white movin' shapes, the crash an' thunder of
it, the ghostly screeches. An' the _Claymore's_ iron plates was
doomed; an' the _Royal Bloodhound_ could escape on'y by good luck or
the immediate attention o' the good God A'mighty.
"Jus' afore dark I come t' my senses.
"'What's _this_!' thinks I.
"I waited.
"'Wind's haulin' round a bit,' thinks I.
"I waited a spell longer t' make sure.
"'Jumpin' round t' the s'uth'ard,' thinks I, 'by Heavens!' I made for
the skipper's cabin with the news. 'Cap'n Sammy, sir,' says I, 'the
wind's haulin' round t' the s'uth'ard.'
"'_Wind's what!_' Cap'n Sammy yelled.
"'Goin' round t' the s'uth'ard on the jump,' says I.
"Cap'n Sammy bounced out on deck an' turned his gray ol' face t' the
gale. An' 'twas true: the wind was swingin' round the compass; every
squall that blew was a point off. An' Cap'n Sammy seed in a flash that
they wasn't no dollar a minute for he if Cap'n Wrath knowed what the
change o' wind meant. For look you, sir! when the wind was from the
nor'west, it jammed the slob against the pack behind us, an' fetched
down the floe t' win'ard; but blowin' strong from southerly parts,
'twould not only halt the floe, but 'twould loosen the pack in which
we lay, an' scatter it in the open water half a league t' the
nor'west. In an hour--if the wind went swingin' round--the _Royal
Bloodhound_ an' the _Claymore_ would be floatin' free. An' round she
went, on the jump; an' she blowed high--an' higher yet--with every
squall.
"I jumped when I cotched sight o' Cap'n Sammy's face. 'Twas
ghastly--an' all in a sour pucker o' wrinkles. Seemed, too, that his
voice had got lost in his throat. 'Tumm,' says he, 'fetch my coon-skin
coat. I'm goin' aboard Cap'n Wrath,' says he, 't' reason.'
"'You'll never do _that_!' says I.
"'I wants my tow,' says he; 'an' Cap'n Wrath is a warm-water sailor,
an' won't know what this ice will do.'
"'Skipper Sammy,' says I, ''tis no fit time for any man t' be on the
ice. The pack's goin' abroad in this wind.'
"'I'm used t' the ice from my youth up,' says he, 'an' I'll manage the
passage.'
"'Man,' says I, 'the night's near down!'
"'Mr. Tumm, I'm a kindly skipper,' says he, 'but I haves my way. My
coon-skin coat, sir!'
"I fetched it.
"'Take the ship, Mr. Tumm,' says he; 'an' stand aside, sir, an you
please!'
"Touched with rum, half mad o' balked greed, with a face like wrinkled
foolscap, Small Sam Small went over the side, in his coonskin coat.
The foggy night fell down. The lights o' the _Claymore_ showed dim in
the drivin' mist. The wind had its way. An' it blowed the slob off t'
sea like feathers. What a wonder o' power is the wind! An' the sea
begun t' hiss an' swell where the ice had been. From the fog come the
clang o' the _Claymore's_ telegraph, the chug-chug of her engines, an'
a long howl o' delight as she gathered way. 'Twas no time at all, it
seemed t' me, afore we lost her lights in the mist. An' in that black
night--with the wind t' smother his cries--we couldn't find Sammy
Small.
* * * * *
"The wind fell away at dawn," Tumm went on. "A gray day: the sea a
cold gray--the sky a drear color. We found Skipper Sammy, close t'
noon, with fog closin' down, an' a drip o' rain fallin'. He was
squatted on a pan o' ice--broodin'--wrapped up in his coonskin coat.
'Tumm,' says he, 'carry my ol' bones aboard.' An' he said never a word
more until we had un stretched out in his bunk an' the chill eased
off. 'Tumm,' says he, 'I got everything fixed in writin', in St.
John's, for--my son. I've made you executor, Tumm, for I knows you
haves a kindly feelin' for the lad, an' an inklin', maybe, o' the kind
o' man I wished I was. A fair lad: a fine, brave lad, with a free
hand. I'm glad he knows how t' spend. I made my fortune, Tumm, as I
made it; an' I'm glad--I'm proud--I'm mighty proud--that my son will
spend it like a gentleman. I loves un. An' you, Tumm, will teach un
wisdom an' kindness, accordin' t' your lights. That's all, Tumm: I've
no more t' say.' Pretty soon, though, he run on: 'I been a mean man.
But I'm not overly sorry now: for hunger an' hardship will never teach
my son evil things o' the world God made. I 'low, anyhow,' says he,
'that God is even with me. But I don't know--I don't know.' You see,"
Tumm reflected, "'tis wisdom t' _get_ an' t' _have_, no doubt; but
'tis not the whole o' wisdom, an' 'tis a mean poor strand o' Truth t'
hang the weight of a life to. Maybe, then," he continued, "Small Sam
Small fell asleep. I don't know. He was quite still. I waited with un
till twilight. 'Twas gray weather still--an' comin' on a black night.
The ship pitched like a gull in the spent swell o' the gale. Rain
fell, I mind. Maybe, then, Skipper Sammy didn't quite know what he was
sayin'. Maybe not. I don't know. 'Tumm,' says he, 'is you marked his
eyes? Blood back o' them eyes, sir--blood an' a sense o' riches. His
strut, Tumm!' says he. 'Is you marked the strut? A little game-cock,
Tumm--a gentleman's son, every pound an' inch of un! A fine, fair lad.
My lad, sir. An' he's a free an' genial spender, God bless un!'
"Skipper Sammy," Tumm concluded, "died that night."
[Illustration: "We found Skipper Sammy squatted on a pan of
ice."]
The gale was still blowing in Right-an'-Tight Cove of the Labrador,
where the schooner _Quick as Wink_ lay at anchor: a black gale of fall
weather.
"Tumm," the skipper of the _Quick as Wink_ demanded, "what become o'
that lad?"
"Everybody knows," Tumm answered.
"What!" the skipper ejaculated; "you're never tellin' me he's the
Honor----"
"I is," Tumm snapped, impatiently. "He's the Honorable Samuel Small,
o' St. John's. 'If I'm goin' t' use my father's fortune,' says he,
'I'll wear his name.'"
"'Twas harsh," the skipper observed, "on the mother."
"No-o-o," Tumm drawled; "not harsh. She never bore no grudge against
Small Sam Small--not after the baby was born. She was jus' a common
ordinary woman."
* * * * *
IX
AN IDYL OF RICKITY TICKLE
* * * * *
IX
AN IDYL OF RICKITY TICKLE
No fish at Whispering Islands: never a quintal--never so much as a
fin--at Come-by-Chance; and no more than a catch of tom-cod in the
hopeful places past Skeleton Point of Three Lost Souls. The schooner
_Quick as Wink_, trading the Newfoundland outports in summer weather,
fluttered from cove to bight and tickle of the coast below Mother
Burke, in a great pother of anxiety, and chased the rumor of a catch
around the Cape Norman light to Pinch-a-Penny Beach. There was no fish
in those places; and the _Quick as Wink_, with Tumm, the clerk, in a
temper with the vagaries of the Lord, as manifest in fish and weather,
spread her wings for flight to the Labrador. From Bay o' Love to Baby
Cove, the hook-and-line men, lying off the Harborless Shore, had done
well enough with the fish for folk of their ill condition, and were
well enough disposed toward trading; whereupon Tumm resumed once more
his genial patronage of the Lord God A'mighty, swearing, in vast
satisfaction with the trade of those parts, that all was right with
the world, whatever might seem at times. "In this here world, as Davy
Junk used t' hold," he laughed, in extenuation of his improved
philosophy, "'tis mostly a matter o' fish." And it came about in this
way that when we dropped anchor at Dirty-Face Bight of the Labrador,
whence Davy Junk, years ago, in the days of his youth, had issued to
sail the larger seas, the clerk was reminded of much that he might
otherwise have forgotten. This was of a starlit time: it was blowing
softly from southerly parts, I recall; and the water lay flat under
the stars--flat and black in the lee of those great hills--and the
night was clear and warm and the lights were out ashore.
"I come near not bein' very _fond_ o' Davy Junk, o' Dirty-Face Bight,"
Tumm presently declared.
"Good Lord!" the skipper taunted. "A rascal you couldn't excuse,
Tumm?"
"I'd no fancy for his _religion_," Tumm complained.
"What religion?"
"Well," the clerk replied, in a scowling drawl, "Skipper Davy always
'lowed that in this here damned ol' world a man had t' bite or get
bit. An' as for his manner o' courtin' a maid in consequence----"
"Crack on!" said the skipper.
And Tumm yarned to his theme....
* * * * *
"Skipper Davy was well-favored enough, in point o' looks, for fishin'
the Labrador," he began; "an' I 'low, with the favor he had, such as
'twas, he might have done as well with the maids as the fish, courtin'
as he cotched--ay, an' made his everlastin' fortune in love, I'll be
bound, an' kep' it at compound interest through the eternal years--had
his heart been as tender as his fear o' the world was large, or had he
give way, by times, t' the kindness o' soul he was born with. A
scrawny, pinch-lipped, mottled little runt of a Labrador skipper, his
face all screwed up with peerin' for trouble in the mists beyond the
waters o' the time: he was born here at Dirty-Face Bight, but sailed
the _Word o' the Lord_ out o' Rickity Tickle, in the days of his
pride, when I was a lad o' the place; an' he cotched his load, down
north, lean seasons or plenty, in a way t' make the graybeards an'
boasters blink in every tickle o' the Shore. A fish-killer o' parts he
was: no great spectacle on the roads o' harbor, though--a mild,
backward, white-livered little man ashore, yieldin' the path t' every
dog o' Rickity Tickle. 'I gets my fish in season,' says he, 'an' I got
a right t' mind my business between whiles.' But once fair out t' sea,
with fish t' be got, an' the season dirty, the devil hisself would
drive a schooner no harder than Davy Junk--not even an the Ol' Rascal
was trappin' young souls in lean times, with revivals comin' on like
fall gales. Neither looks nor liver could keep Davy in harbor in a
gale o' wind, with a trap-berth t' be snatched an' a schooner in the
offing; nor did looks hamper un in courtship, an' that's my yarn,
however it turns out, for his woe or salvation. 'Twas sheer perversity
o' religion that kep' his life anchored in Bachelors' Harbor--'A man's
got t' bite or get bit!'
"Whatever an' all, by some mischance Davy Junk was fitted out with red
hair, a bony face, lean, gray lips, an' sharp an' shifty little eyes.
He'd a sly way, too, o' smoothin' his restless lips, an' a mean habit
o' lookin' askance an' talkin' in whispers. But 'twas his eyes that
startled a stranger. Ah-ha, they was queer little eyes, sot deep in a
cramped face, an' close as evil company, each peekin' out in distrust
o' the world; as though, ecod, the world was waitin' for nothin' so
blithely as t' strike Davy Junk in a mean advantage! Eyes of a
wolf-pup. 'Twas stand off a pace, with Davy, on first meetin', an' eye
a man 'til he'd found what he wanted t' know; an' 'twas sure with the
look of a Northern pup o' wolf's breedin', no less, that he'd search
out a stranger's intention--ready t' run in an' bite, or t' dodge the
toe of a boot, as might chance t' seem best. 'Twas a thing a man
marked first of all; an' he'd marvel so hard for a bit, t' make head
an' tale o' the glance he got, that he'd hear never a word o' what
Davy Junk said. An' without knowin' why, he'd be ashamed of hisself
for a cruel man. 'God's sake, Skipper Davy!' thinks he; 'you needn't
be afeared o' _me_! _I_ isn't goin' t' touch you!' An' afore he knowed
it he'd have had quite a spurt o' conversation with Davy, without
sayin' a word, but merely by means o' the eyes; the upshot bein'
this: that he'd promise not t' hurt Davy, an' Davy'd promise not t'
hurt he.
"Thereafter--the thing bein' settled once an' for all--'twas plain
sailin' along o' Davy Junk.
"'Skipper Davy,' says I, 'what you afeared of?'
"He jumped. 'Me?' says he, after a bit. 'Why?'
"'Oh,' says I, 'I'm jus' curious t' know.'
"'I've noticed, Tumm,' says he, 'that you is a wonderful hand t' pry
into the hearts o' folk. But I 'low you doesn't mean no harm. That's
jus' Nature havin' her way. An' though I isn't very fond o' Nature, I
got t' stand by her dealin's here below. So I'll answer you fair. Why,
lad,' says he, '_I_ isn't afeared o' nothin'!'
"'You're wary as a wolf, man!'
"'I bet you I _is_!' says he, in a flash, with his teeth shut. 'A
man's _got_ t' be wary.'
"'They isn't nobody wants t' hurt a mild man like you.'
"'Pack o' wolves in this here world,' says he. 'No mercy nowhere. You
bites or gets bit.'
"Well, well! 'Twas news t' the lad that was I. 'Who tol' you so?' says
I.
"'Damme!' says he, 'I found it out.'
"'How?'
"'Jus' by livin' along t' be thirty-odd years.'
"'Why, Skipper Davy,' says I, 'it looks t' me like a kind an' lovely
world!'
"'You jus' wait 'til you're thirty-two, like me,' says he, 'an' see
how you likes it.'
"'You can't scare _me_, Skipper Davy!'
"'World's full o' wolves, I tells you!'
"'Sure,' says I, 'you doesn't _like_ t' think that, does you?'
"'It don't matter what I likes t' think,' says he. 'I've gathered
wisdom. I thinks as I must.'
"'I wouldn't believe it, ecod,' says I, 'an I knowed it t' be true!'
"An' I never did."
Tumm chuckled softly in the dark--glancing now at the friendly stars,
for such reassurance, perhaps, as he needed, and had had all his
genial life.
* * * * *