went on; "but 'twas never the sea that scared un. 'They isn't no wind
can scare me,' says he, 'for I isn't bad friends with death.' Nor was
he! A beat into the gray wind--hangin' on off a lee shore--a hard
chance with the Labrador reefs in foggy weather--a drive through the
ice after dark: Davy Junk, clever an' harsh at sea, was the skipper
for _that_, mild as he might seem ashore. 'Latch-string out for Death,
any time he chances my way, at sea,' says he; 'but I isn't goin' t'
die o' want ashore.' So he'd a bad name for drivin' a craft beyond her
strength; an' 'twas none but stout hearts--blithe young devils, the
most, with a wish t' try their spirit--would ship on the _Word o' the
Lord_. 'Don't you blame _me_ an we're cast away,' says Davy, in fair
warnin'. 'An you got hearts in your bellies, you keep out o' _this_.
This here coast,' says he, 'isn't got no mercy on a man that can't get
his fish. _An' I isn't that breed o' man!_' An' so from season t'
season he'd growed well-t'-do: a drive in the teeth o' hell, in
season--if hell's made o' wind an' sea, as I'm inclined t' think--an'
the ease of a bachelor man, between whiles, in his cottage at Rickity
Tickle, where he lived all alone like a spick-an'-span spinster. 'Twas
not o' the sea he was scared. 'Twas o' want in an unkind world; an'
t'was jus' that an' no more that drove un t' hard sailin' an' contempt
o' death--sheer fear o' want in the wolf's world that he'd made this
world out t' be in his own soul.
"'Twas not the sea: 'twas his own kind he feared an' kep' clear
of--men, maids, an' children. Friends? Nar a one--an' 'twas wholly his
choosin', too; for the world never fails t' give friends t' the man
that seeks un. 'I doesn't _want_ no friends,' says he. 'New friends,
new worries; an' the more o' one, the more o' the other. I got
troubles enough in this here damned world without takin' aboard the
thousand troubles o' friends. An' I 'low they got troubles enough
without sharin' the burden o' mine. _Me_ a friend! I'd only fetch
sorrow t' the folk that loved me. An' so I don't want t' have nothin'
t' do with nobody. I wants t' cotch my fish in season--an' then I
wants t' be left alone. Hate or love: 'tis all the same--trouble for
the hearts o' folk on both sides. An', anyhow, I isn't got nothin' t'
do with this world. _I'm_ only lookin' on. No favors took,' says he,
'an' none granted.' An', well--t' be sure--in the way the world
has--the world o' Rickity Tickle an' the Labrador let un choose his
own path. But it done Davy Junk no good that any man could see; for by
fits he'd be bitter as salt, an' by starts he'd be full o' whimpers
an' sighs as a gale's full o' wind, an' between his fits an' his
starts 'twas small rest that he had, I'm thinkin'. He'd no part with
joy, for he hated laughter, an' none with rest, for he couldn't abide
ease o' mind; an' as for sorrow, 'twas fair more than he could bear t'
look upon an' live, for his conscience was alive an' loud in his
heart, an' what with his religion he lived in despite of its teachin'.
"I've considered an' thought sometimes, overcome a bit by the
spectacle o' grief, an' no stars showin', that had Davy Junk not been
wonderful tender o' heart he'd have nursed no spite against God's
world; an' whatever an' all, had he but had the power an' wisdom, t'
strangle his conscience in its youth he'd have gained peace in his own
path, as many a man afore un.
"'Isn't _my_ fault!' says he, one night. 'Can't blame _me_!'
"'What's that, Skipper Davy?'
"'They says Janet Luff's wee baby has come t' the pass o'
starvation.'
"'Well,' says I, 'what's _your_ tears for?'
"'I isn't got nothin' t' do with this here damned ol' world,' says he.
_'I'm_ only lookin' on. Isn't no good in it, anyhow.'
"'Cheer up!' says I. 'Isn't nobody hurtin' _you_.'
"'Not bein' in love with tears an' hunger,' says he, 'I isn't able t'
cheer up.'
"'There's more'n that in the world.'
"'Ay; death an' sin.'
"I was a lad in love. 'Kisses!' says I.
"'A pother o' blood an' trouble,' says he. 'Death in every mouthful a
man takes.'
"'Skipper Davy,' says I, 'you've come to a dreadful pass.'
"'Ay, an' t' be sure!' says he. 'I've gathered wisdom with my years;
an' every man o' years an' wisdom has come to a dreadful pass. Wait
'til you're thirty-two, lad, an' you'll find it out, an' remember Davy
Junk in kindness, once you feels the fangs o' the world at your
throat. Maybe you thinks, Tumm, that I likes t' live in a wolf's
world. But I doesn't like it. I jus' knows 'tis a wolf's world and
goes cautious accordin'. I didn't make it, an' don't like it, but I'm
here, an' I'm a wolf like the rest. A wolf's world! Ah-ha! You bites
or gets bit down here. Teeth for you an you've no teeth o' your own.
Janet Luff's baby, says you? But a dollar a tooth; an'--I _keeps_ my
teeth; keeps un sharp an' ready for them that might want t' bite me in
my old age. If I was a fish I'd be fond o' angle-worms; bein' born in
a wolf's world, with the soul of a wolf, why, damme, I files my teeth!
Still an' all, lad, I'm a genial man, an' I'll not deny that I'm
unhappy. You thinks I likes t' hear the lads ashore mock me for a
pinch-penny an' mean man? No, sir! It grieves me. I wants all the time
t' hear the little fellers sing out: "Ahoy, there, Skipper Davy, ol'
cock! What fair wind blowed _you_ through the tickle?" An' I'm a man
o' compassion, too. Why, Tumm, you'll never believe it, I knows, but
_I_ wants t' lift the fallen, an _I_ wants t' feed the hungry, an' _I_
wants to clothe the naked! It fair breaks my heart t' hear a child
cry. I lies awake o' nights t' brood upon the sorrows o' the world.
That's my heart, Tumm, as God knows it--but 'tis not the wisdom I've
gathered. An' age an' wisdom teach a man t' be wary in a wolf's world.
'Tis a shame, by God!' poor Davy Junk broke out; 'but 'tisn't _my_
fault!'
"I was scared t' my marrow-bones.
"'An' now, Tumm,' says he, 'what'll I do?'
"'Skipper Davy,' says I, 'go wash the windows o' your soul!'
"He jumped. 'How's that?' says he.
"''Twould ease your heart t' do a good deed,' says I. 'Go save that
baby.'
"'Me!' says he, in a rage. 'I'll have no hand whatever in savin' that
child.'
"'Why not?'
"''Twouldn't be kind t' the child.'
"'God's sake!'
"'Don't you _see_, Tumm?'
"'Look you, Skipper Davy!' says I, 'Janet's baby isn't goin' t' die o'
starvation in _this_ harbor. There'll be a crew o' good women an'
Labrador hands at Janet's when the news get abroad. But an you're
lucky an' makes haste you'll be able t' get there first.'
"'What's _one_ good deed?'
"''Twould be a good deed, Skipper Davy,' says I. 'An' you'd _know_
it.'
"Skipper Davy jumped up. An' he was fair shakin' from head t'
toe--with some queer temptation t' be kind, it seemed to me then.
"'Make haste!' says I.
"'I can't do a good deed!' he whimpered. 'I--I--got the other habit!'
"'Twas of a June night at Rickity Tickle that Davy Junk said these
words," Tumm commented, in a kindly way, "with the Labrador vessels
fitted out an' waitin' for a fair wind: such a night as this--a slow,
soft little wind, a still, black harbor, an' a million stars
a-twinkle." He paused--and looked up from the shadowy deck of the
_Quick as Wink_. "What more can a man ask t' stay his soul," he
demanded, "than all them little stars?" The skipper of the _Quick as
Wink_ said, "'Tis a night o' fair promise!" And Tumm, in a sigh, "Davy
Junk would never look up at the stars." And the little stars
themselves continued to wink away in companionable reassurance just
the same.
* * * * *
"The other habit!" Tumm ejaculated. "Ay--the other habit! 'Twas habit:
a habit o' soul. An' then I learned a truth o' life. 'Twas no new
thing, t' be sure: every growed man knows it well enough. But 'twas
new t' me--as truth forever comes new t' the young. Lovely or fearsome
as may chance t' be its guise, 'tis yet all new to a lad--a flash o'
light upon the big mystery in which a lad's soul dwells eager for
light. An' I was scared; an' I jumped away from Davy Junk--as once
thereafter I did--an' fair shook in the Presence o' the Truth he'd
taught me. For 'twas clear as a star: that a soul fashions its own
world an' lives therein. An' I'd never knowed it afore! An' I mind
well that it come like a vision: the glimpse of a path, got from a
hill--a path the feet o' men may tread t' hell an men perversely
choose it. A wolf's world? A world as you likes it! An' in my young
world was no sorrow at all--nor any sin, nor hate, nor hunger, nor
tears. But love, ecod!--which, like truth, comes new t' the young, an'
first glimpsed is forever glorious. I was sixteen then--a bit more,
perhaps; an' I was fond o' laughter an' hope. An' Bessie Tot was in my
world: a black-haired, red-lipped little rogue, with gray eyes, slow
glances, an' black lashes t' veil her heart from eager looks. First
love for T. Tumm, I'm bold t' say; for I'm proud o' the odd lift o'
soul it give me--which I've never knowed since, though I've sought it
with diligence--ay, almost with prayer. I've no shame at all t' tell
o' the touch of a warm, moist little hand on the road t' Gull Island
Cove--the whisper, the tender fear, in the shadow o' the Needle--an'
the queer, quick little kiss at the gate o' dark nights--an' the sigh
an' the plea t' come again. An' so, t' be sure, I'd no kin with the
gloom o' Davy Junk that night, but was brother t' hope an' joy an'
love. An' my body was big an' warm an' willin'--an' my heart was
tender--an' my soul was clean--an' for love o' the maid I loved I'd
turned my eyes t' the sunlit hills o' life. God's world o' sea an'
labor an' hearts--an' therein a lad in love!
"'I'll take care o' my soul,' thinks the lad, that was I, 'lest it be
cast away forever, God help me!'
"An' that's youth--the same everywhere an' forever."
Tumm sighed....
* * * * *
"'Twas high time for me now t' sail the Labrador," Tumm resumed, "an'
I was in a pother o' longin' t' go. Sixteen--an' never a sight o'
Mugford! I was fair ashamed t' look Bessie Tot in the eye. Dear
heart!--she ever loved courage in a man, an' the will t' labor, too,
an' t' be. An' so--'Ecod!' thinks I, on the way home that night, 'I'll
sail along o' Davy Junk, an' prove my spirit, withal, for the whole
world t' see. An' I 'low that _now_, knowin' me so well as he does,
Davy'll ship me.' But my mother said me nay--until I pestered her
skirts an' her poor heart beyond bearin'; an' then all at once she
cried, an' kissed me, an' cried a bit more, an' kissed me again, an'
hugged me, an' 'lowed that a lad had t' be a man _some_ time, whatever
happened, an' bade me sail along o' Skipper Davy an he'd take me,
which he never would do, thinks she. It come about, whatever an' all,
that I found Skipper Davy on the doorstep of his spick-an'-span
cottage by Blow-Me, near the close o' that day, with night fallin'
with poor promise, an' the wind adverse an' soggy with fog. An' thinks
I, his humor would be bad, an' he'd be cursin' the world an' the
weather an' all in the way he'd the bad habit o' doin'. But no such
thing; he was as near to a smile o' satisfaction with hisself as Davy
Junk could very well come with the bad habit o' lips an' brows he'd
contracted. For look you!--a scowl is a twist o' face with some men;
but with Davy his smile was a twist that had t' be _kep'_ twisted.
"'Evil weather, Skipper Davy,' says I.
"'Oh no,' says he. 'It all depends on how you _looks_ at it.'
"'But you're not in the habit o' lookin'----'
"'I'm learnin' t' peep,' says he.
"I'd no means of accountin' for _that_! 'Foul weather, an' no talkin',
man,' says I, 'for the Labrador bound!'
"'What's the sense o' naggin' the _weather_?' says he. 'Isn't you able
t' leave her alone, Tumm? Give her time, lad, an' she'll blow fair.
She've her humors as well as we, haven't she? An' she've her business,
too. An' how can _you_ tell whether her business is good or evil? I
tells you, Tumm, you isn't got no right t' question the weather.'
"'God's sake!' says I. 'What's happened overnight?'
"'No matter,' says he. 'I 'low a man haves the right t' _try_ a change
o' mind an he wants to.'
"'Parson Tree been overhaulin' you?'
"'Oh,' says he, 'a man can put his soul shipshape without the aid of a
parson.'
"'Then, Skipper Davy,' says I, with my heart in my mouth, 'I 'low I'll
sail the Labrador along o' you.'
"'Not so, my son,' says he. 'By no means.'
"'I _wants_ to, Skipper Davy!'
"'You got a mother ashore,' says he.
"'Well, but,' says I, 'my mother says a lad's got t' be a man _some_
time.'
"'I can't afford t' take you, Tumm.'
"'Look you, Skipper Davy!' says I, 'I'm able-bodied for my years. None
more so. Take me along o' you--an' I'll work my hands t' bloody pulp!'
"''Tis not that, Tumm,' says he. ''Tis--well--because--I've growed
kind o' fond o' you overnight. We got a bit--intimate--together--an'
you--was kind. Tis not my habit, lad, t' be fond o' nobody,' says he,
in a flash, 'an' I'll not keep it up. I'm otherwise schooled. But,
damme!' says he, 'a man's got t' go overboard _once_ in a while,
whatever comes t' pass.'
"'Then sure you'll take me!'
"'I wouldn't get my fish,' says he. 'I'd be scared o' losin' you. I'd
sail the _Word o' the Lord_ like a ninny. Thinks I--I got t' be
careful! Thinks I--why, I can't have Tumm cast away, for what would
his mother do? Thinks I--I'll reef, an' I'll harbor, an' I can't get
along, an' I might hit ice, an' I might go ashore on Devil-May-Care.
_An' I wouldn't get my fish!_'
"'Still an' all, I _got_ t' go!'
"'You isn't driven,' says he.
"'Skipper Davy,' says I, fair desperate, 'I got a maid.'
"'A _what_?' says he.
"'A maid, Skipper Davy,' says I, 'an' I wants with all my heart t'
prove my courage.'
"'What you goin' t' do with her?'
"'I'll wed her in due season.'
"Skipper Davy jumped--an' stared at me until I fair blushed. I'd shook
un well, it seemed, without knowin'--fair t' the core of his heart, as
it turned out--an' I'd somehow give un a glimpse of his own young
days, which he'd forgot all about an' buried in the years since then,
an' couldn't now believe had been true. 'A maid?' says he then.
'A--maid! An' you'll wed her in due season! _You_, lad! Knee-high to a
locust! An' you wants t' go down the Labrador t' prove your courage
for the sake of a maid? For--Love! Tis not a share o' the catch you
wants--'tis not altogether the sight o' strange places--'tis not t'
master the tricks o' sailin'--'tis not t' learn the reefs an' berths
o' the Labrador. 'Tis t' prove--your--courage! An' for the sake of a
maid! Is that the behavior o' lads in the world in these times? Was it
always the way--with lads? I wonder--I wonder an _I_ might ever have
done _that_--in my youth!'
"I couldn't tell un.
"'Tumm,' says he, 'I'll further your purpose, God help me!'
* * * * *
"An' then the first adventure comin' down like a patch o' sunshine
over the sea! Ah-ha, the glory o' that time! Sixteen--an' as yet no
adventure beyond the waters of our parts! A nobbly time off Mad Mull
in a easterly wind--a night on the ice in the spring o' the year--a
wrecked punt in the tickle waters; but no big adventure--no right t'
swagger--none t' cock my cap--an' no great tale o' the north coast t'
tell the little lads o' Rickity Tickle on the hills of a Sunday
afternoon. But now, at last, I'd a berth with Davy Junk, a thing
beyond belief, an' I was bound out when the weather fell fair. An' out
we put, in the _Word o' the Lord_, in good time; an' Skipper
Davy--moved by fear of his fondness, no doubt--cuffed me from Rickity
Tickle t' the Straits, an' kicked me from the Barnyards t'
Thumb-an'-Finger o' Pinch-Me Head. 'I isn't able t' be partial, lad,'
says he, 't' them I'm fool enough t' be fond of.' Whatever had come to
un overnight at Rickity Tickle--an' however he'd learned t' peep in
new ways--there was no sign o' conversion on the cruise from Rickity
t' Pinch-Me. But 'twas some comfort t' be well in the lead o' the
fleet in the Straits, when a westerly gale blowed the ice off-shore,
an' it fair healed my bruises an' cured my dumps t' get the traps down
between the Thumb an' the Finger afore a sail showed up in the gray
weather t' s'uth'ard. Hard sailin', every inch o' the way down--blind
an' mad. Skipper Davy at the wheel: fog alongshore, ice in the fog,
reefs off the heads, an' a wind, by times, t' make the _Word o' the
Lord_ howl with the labor o' drivin' north.
"I didn't ease up on my prayers afore the anchor was down an' the
_Word o' the Lord_ got her rest in the lee o' Pinch-Me.
"'Feelin' better, Tumm?' says Skipper Davy.
"'I is.'
"'Don't you mind them few little kicks an' cuffs,' says he; 'they was
jus' meant t' harden you up.'
"'My duty,' says I.
"'I isn't very used t' bein' fond o' nobody,' says he, 'an' 'tis on my
conscience t' make a man o' your mother's son. An', moreover,' says
he, ''tis on my conscience t' teach you the worth of a dollar in
labor.'
"'My duty, Skipper Davy.'
"'Oh,' says he, 'you don't owe me nothin', I'm deep in debt t' you.'
"'Twas a harsh season for Labrador-men. Fish? Fish enough--but bitter
t' take from the seas off Pinch-Me. The wind was easterly, raw, wet,
an' foggy, blowin' high an' low, an' the ice went scrapin' down the
coast, an' the big black-an'-white seas come tumblin' in from
Greenland. There was no lee for the _Word o' the Lord_ in that
weather: she lied off the big cliffs o' Pinch-Me, kickin' her heels,
writhin' about, tossin' her head; an' many's the time, in the drivin'
gales o' that season, I made sure she'd pile up on the rocks, in the
frothy little cove between the Thumb an' the Finger, where the big
waves went t' smash with a boom-bang-swish an' hiss o' drippin'
thunder. By day 'twas haul the traps--pull an oar an' fork the catch
with a back on fire, cracked hands, salt-water sores t' the elbow,
soggy clothes, an' an empty belly; an' by night 'twas split the
fish--slash an' gut an' stow away, in the torchlight, with sticky
eyelids, hands an' feet o' lead, an' a neck as limp as death. I
learned a deal about life--an' about the worth of a dollar in labor.
'Take that!' says Skipper Davy, with the toe of his boot, 'an' I'm
sorry t' have to do it, but you can't fall asleep on a stack o' green
cod at two o'clock in the mornin' an' be a success in life. Try
_that_!' says he, with the flat of his hand, 'though it grieves me
sore t' hurt you.' But whatever an' all, us loaded the _Word o' the
Lord_--an' stowed the gear away, an' fell down t' sleep in our tracks,
an' by an' by lied in wait for a fair wind t' the Newf'un'land
outports. An' there comes a night--a fine, clear, starry night like
this--with good prospects o' haulin' out at break o' day. An' I could
sleep no longer, an' I went on deck alone, t' look up at the sky, an'
t' dream dreams, maybe, accordin' t' my youth an' hope an' the good
years I'd lived at Rickity Tickle.
"A lovely night: still an' starlit--with a flash o' northern lights
abroad, an' the ol' _Word o' the Lord_ lyin' snug asleep in a slow,
black sea.
"Skipper Davy come up. 'Tumm,' says he, 'is you on deck?'
"'Ay, sir.'
"'Where is you, b'y?'
"'Lyin' here, sir,' says I, 'cuddled down on a cod-net.'
"'Now that the labor is over,' says he, 'I'm all tired out an'
downcast.' He sot down beside me. 'You doesn't bear no malice for all
them kicks an' cuffs, does you?' says he. 'You sees, lad, I--I--isn't
used t' bein' fond o' nobody--an' I 'low I don't know how very
well--though I done my best.'
"'Sure,' says I, 'I've no malice?'
"'What you doin' here?' says he.
"'Lookin' up at the stars.'
"'Is you?' says he. 'What for?'
"'They're such wonderful friendly little beggars, Skipper Davy!'
"'_I_ never looks up at the stars.'
"'They're friends o' _mine_!'
"'Not bein' very much in favor o' the world!' says he, 'I doesn't
countenance the stars.'
"An' all at once I turned to un in a sweat an' shiver o' fear. Not
countenance the stars! Here, then, another flash o' light upon the big
mystery! Now first I glimpsed the end of a path of evil. Not
countenance the stars! Could a man truly come t' such a sad pass in
God's good world? I knowed evil: all lads knows it, t' be sure--its
first gates in the world: not its last places. An' they stand without,
in fair meadows, an' peep beyond--an' wonder, an' ponder, an' wish
with all their young, eager hearts t' follow the paths an' learn. An'
we that are growed forget the wonder an' the wish--an' show no scars
that we can hide, an' draw the curtain upon our ways, an' make mockery
o' truth, an' clothe our hearts in hypocrisy, an' offer false example,
an' lie of our lives an' souls, lest we stand ashamed. 'Tis a cruel
fate for lads, it may be, an' a deceitful prophecy. I knows little
enough about life, but exhibit my ways, whatever an' all, for the
worth they may have; an had I my will in the world, I'd light the
country beyond the gates, ecod! an' with my own hands stir up all the
beasts! Not countenance the stars! 'Twas a vision again for the lad
that was I--first glimpse o' the end of any path of evil. 'I must
guard my soul,' thinks the lad that was I, in his heart, 'lest I come
to a pass like this.'
* * * * *
"There was light abroad by this time: a big, golden, jolly moon,
peepin' over the black cliffs o' Thumb-an'-Finger, not ashamed t' grin
its fellowship with sea an' stars an' all the handiwork o' God. An'
all the world save Davy Junk--all the world from the ragged hills t'
the rim o' the sea--from the southern stars fair north t' the long,
white lights--was at peace in the night. An' then Skipper Davy said:
'I done jus' what you tol' me, Tumm, afore us put out from Rickity
Tickle. I--I--done a deal for Janet Luff's child--an' I've no
complaint t' make. I made haste, lad, as you said, an' got there
first, an' done the good deed, an' knowed 'twas a good deed; an' I
been a sight happier ever since--though I'm woebegone enough, God
knows! But the windows o' my soul is cleaner. I'm awakened. I been
sort o' converted--t' love. An' comin' down the coast--an' here at the
fishin', with the gales ill-minded an' steeped in hate, an' the Thumb
an' the Finger jus' waitin' t' le'ward t' pinch us all t' death--I
been broodin' a deal upon love. An' I'm lonely. An' now, Tumm, I wants
t' get married--as a lonely man will. An' they's a maid back there at
Rickity Tickle that I loved in my youth. She've a kind heart and a
comely face. She was ever kind--an' comely. I told her once, long
ago, at Dirty-Face Bight, that I--I--sort o' fancied I loved her; an'
I 'lowed that once I found out that I did in truth--an' once I'd laid
up a store against evil times--that I--I--I'd ask her t' wed me. An' I
knowed that I loved her all the time. An' she said--that she'd wait.
An' she've--waited. I 'low, Tumm, that you might help me in this
pass--for you're young, an' in love, an' in touch with the ways o'
courtship, an' I'm old, an' crabbed, an' tired, an' afraid o' the
world, an' I've no admiration for the man that I is. Eh, Tumm, lad?
Think you might--serve me?'
"'Skipper Davy,' says I, 'I'll do my level best.'
"'A fair night,' says he. 'Breezin' up a bit from the north. I 'low
we'll get underway at dawn. Is you--is you--well acquainted with Mary
Land?'
"'Sure,' says I, 'she nursed me!'
"'She's the maid,' says he, 'that's waited.'
"'An' you,' says I, in a rage, 'is the man she've waited for all these
years?'
"'I 'low,' says he, 'you might move her t' heed me.'
"'Well,' says I, 'I'll do what I'm able--for she.'
"'I'm much obliged,' says he; 'an' I forgives you all the grief them
cuffs an' kicks has caused me.'
* * * * *