_In Which a Blazing Club Plays a Salutary Part, Teddy Brisk Declares
the Ways of His Mother, and Billy Topsail Looks Forward to a Battle
that No Man Could Win_
Next night--a starlit time then, and the wind gone flat--Billy Topsail
was burning the fragments of the komatik. All day the dogs had roamed
the pan. They had not ventured near Billy Topsail's authority--not
within reach of Billy's treacherously minded flattery and coaxing. In
the exercise of this new freedom they had run wild and fought among
themselves like a mutinous pirate crew. Now, however, with night down,
they had crept out of its seclusion and were sitting on the edge of the
firelight, staring, silent, pondering.
Teddy Brisk was tied up in the wolfskin bag. It was the best refuge for
the lad. In the event of a rush he would not be torn in the scuffle; and
should the dogs overcome Billy Topsail--which was not yet probable--the
little boy would be none the worse off in the bag.
Had the dogs been a pack of wolves Billy would have been in livid fear
of them; but these beasts were dogs of his own harbour, which he had
commanded at will and beaten at will, and he was awaiting the onset with
grim satisfaction. In the end, as he knew, the dogs would have an
advantage that could not be resisted; but now--Billy Topsail would
"l'arn 'em! Let 'em come!"
Billy's club, torn from the komatik, was lying one end in his little
fire. He nursed it with care.
Cracker fawned up. In the shadows, behind, the pack stared attentive. It
was a pretense at playfulness--Cracker's advance. Cracker pawed the ice,
and wagged his tail, and laughed. This amused Billy. It was transparent
cunning. Billy gripped his club and let the fire freely ignite the end
of it. He was as keen as the dog--as sly and as alert.
He said:
"Good ol' dog!"
Obviously the man was not suspicious. Cracker's confidence increased. He
moved quickly, then, within leaping distance. For a flash he paused,
king-hairs rising. When he rushed, the pack failed him. It started,
quivered, stopped, and cautiously stood still. Billy was up. The lift
of Cracker's crest and the dog's taut pause had amply warned him.
A moment later Cracker was in scared, yelping flight from the pain and
horror of Billy's blazing club, and the pack was in ravenous chase of
him. Billy Topsail listened for the issue of the chase. It came
presently--the confusion of a dog fight; and it was soon over. Cracker
was either dead or master again. Billy hoped the pack had made an end of
him and would be content. He could not be sure of the outcome. Cracker
was a difficult beast.
Released from the wolfskin bag and heartened by Billy's laughter, Teddy
Brisk demanded:
"Was it Cracker?"
"It was."
Teddy grinned.
"Did you fetch un a fatal wallop?"
"I left the dogs t' finish the job. Hark! They're not feastin', is they?
Mm-m? I don't know."
They snuggled up to the little fire. Teddy Brisk was wistful. He talked
now--as often before--of the coming of a skiff from Our Harbour. He had
a child's intimate knowledge of his own mother--and a child's wise and
abounding faith.
"I knows my mother's ways," he declared. "Mark me, Billy, my mother's an
anxious woman an' wonderful fond o' me. When my mother heard that
sou'west wind blow up, 'Skipper Thomas,' says she t' my grandfather,
'them b'ys is goin' out with the ice; an' you get right straight up out
o' bed an' tend t' things.'
"An' my grandfather's a man; an' he says:
"'Go to, woman! They're ashore on Ginger Head long ago!'
"An' my mother says:
"'Ah, well, they mightn't be, you dunder-head!'--for she've a wonderful
temper when she's afeared for my safety.
"An' my grandfather says:
"'They is, though.'
"An' my mother says:
"'You'll be off in the bait skiff t'-morrow, sir, with a flea in your
ear, t' find out at Our Harbour.'
"An' she'd give that man his tea in a mug (scolding) until he got a
Tight Cove crew t'gether an' put out across the bay. Ecod! but they'd
fly across the bay in a gale o' wind like that! Eh, Billy?"
"All in a smother--eh, Teddy?"
"Yep--all in a smother. My grandfather's fit an' able for anything in a
boat. An' they'd send the news up an' down the coast from Our
Harbour--wouldn't they, Billy?"
"'Way up an' down the coast, Teddy."
"Yep--'way up an' down. They must be skiffs from Walk Harbour an'
Skeleton Cove an' Come-Again Bight searchin' this floe for we--eh,
Billy?"
"An' Our Harbour too."
"Yep--an' Our Harbour too. Jus' the way they done when ol' Bad-Weather
West was cast away--eh, Billy? Don't you 'low so?"
"Jus' that clever way, Teddy."
"I reckon my mother'll tend t' that." Teddy's heart failed him then.
"Anyhow, Billy," said he weakly, "you'll take care o' me--won't you--if
the worst comes t' the worst?"
The boy was not too young for a vision of the worst coming to the worst.
"None better!" Billy replied.
"I been thinkin' I isn't very much of a man, Billy. I've not much
courage left."
"Huh!" Billy scoffed. "When we gets ashore, an' I tells my tale o' these
days----"
Teddy started.
"Billy," said he, "you'll not tell what I said?"
"What was that now?"
"Jus' now, Billy--about----"
"I heard no boast. An I was you, Teddy, I wouldn't boast too much. I'd
cling t' modesty."
"I takes it back," said Teddy. He sighed. "An' I'll stand by."
It did not appear to Billy Topsail how this guardianship of the boy was
to be accomplished. Being prolonged, it was a battle, of course, no man
could win. The dogs were beaten off for the time. They would return--not
that night, perhaps, or in the broad light of the next day; but in the
dark of the night to come they would return, and, failing success then,
in the dark of the night after.
That was the way of it.