_In Which Skinflint Sam of Ragged Run Finds Himself in a Desperate
Predicament and Bad-Weather Tom West at Last Has What Skinflint Sam
Wants_
Well, now, when all this had been accomplished, and when Dolly had gone
to bed with her mother, it occurred to Doctor Luke that he had not
clapped eyes on Dolly's father, Bad-Weather Tom West.
"Where's Tom?" said he.
Joe started.
"Wh-wh-where's Tom?" he stammered.
"Ay."
"Have you not heard about Tom?"
Doctor Luke was puzzled.
"No," said he; "not a word."
Joe commanded himself for the tale he had to tell.
* * * * *
"Skipper Tom West," Joe began, "made a wonderful adventure of life in
the end. I doubt if ever a man done such a queer thing afore. 'Twas
queer enough, sir, I'll be bound, an' you'll say so when I tells you;
but 'twas a brave, kind thing, too, though it come perilous close t' the
line o' foul play--but that's how you looks at it. Bad-Weather Tom," he
went on, "come back from seein' you, sir, in a silent mood. An' no
wonder! You told un, sir--well, you told un what you told un, about what
he was to expect in this life; an' the news lay hard on his mood. He
told nobody here what that news was; nor could the gossips gain a word
from his wife.
"'What's the matter with Bad-Weather Tom?' says they.
"'Ask Tom,' says she.
"An' they asked Tom.
"'Tom,' says they, 'what's gone along o' you, anyhow?'
"'Well,' says Tom, 'I found out something I never knowed afore. That's
all that's the matter with me.'
"'Did Doctor Luke tell you?'
"'When I talks with Doctor Luke,' says Tom, 'I _always_ finds out
something I never knowed afore.'
"Whatever you told un, sir--an' I knows what you told un--it made a
changed man o' Bad-Weather Tom. He mooned a deal, an' he would talk no
more o' the future, but dwelt upon the shortness of a man's days an' the
quantity of his sin, an' laboured like mad, an' read the Scriptures by
candle-light, an' sot more store by going to church and prayer-meetin'
than ever afore. Labour? Ecod, how that poor man laboured--after you
told un. While there was light! An' until he fair dropped in his tracks
o' sheer weariness!
"'Twas back in the forest--haulin' fire-wood with the dogs an' storin'
it away back o' this little cottage under Lend-a-Hand Hill.
"'Dear man!' says Skinflint Sam; 'you've fire-wood for half a dozen
winters.'
"'They'll need it,' says Tom.
"'Ay,' says Sam; 'but will you lie idle next winter?'
"'Nex' winter?' says Tom. An' he laughed. 'Oh, nex' winter,' says he,
'I'll have another occupation.'
"'Movin' away, Tom?'
"'Well,' says Tom, 'I is an' I isn't.'
"There come a day not long ago when seals was thick on the floe off
Ragged Run. You mind the time, sir?" Billy Topsail "minded" the time
well enough. And so did Doctor Luke. It was the time when Billy Topsail
and Teddy Brisk were carried to sea with the dogs on the ice. "Well, you
could see the seals with the naked eye from Lack-a-Day Head. A hundred
thousand black specks swarmin' over the ice three miles an' more to sea.
Ragged Run went mad for slaughter--jus' as it did yesterday, sir. 'Twas
a fair time for offshore sealin', too: a blue, still day, with the look
an' feel o' settled weather.
"The ice had come in from the current with a northeasterly gale, a
wonderful mixture o' Arctic bergs and Labrador pans, all blindin' white
in the spring sun; an' 'twas a field so vast, an' jammed so tight
against the coast, that there wasn't much more than a lane or two an' a
Dutchman's breeches of open water within sight from the heads. Nobody
looked for a gale o' offshore wind t' blow that ice t' sea afore dawn o'
the next day.
"'A fine, soft time, lads!' says Skinflint Sam. 'I 'low I'll go out with
the Ragged Run crew.'
"'Skipper Sam,' says Bad-Weather Tom, 'you're too old a man t' be on the
ice.'
"'Ay,' says Sam; 'but I wants t' bludgeon another swile afore I dies.'
"'But you _creaks_, man!'
"'Ah, well,' says Sam; 'I'll show the lads I'm able t' haul a swile
ashore.'
"'Small hope for such as you on a movin' floe!'
"'Last time, Tom,' says Sam.
"'Last time, true enough,' says Tom, 'if that ice starts t' sea with a
breeze o' wind behind!'
"'Oh, well, Tom,' says Sam, 'I'll creak along out an' take my chances.
If the wind comes up I'll be as spry as I'm able.'
"It come on to blow in the afternoon. But 'twas short warnin' o'
offshore weather. A puff o' gray wind come down: a saucier gust went by;
an' then a swirl o' galeish wind jumped off the heads an' come scurrying
over the pans. At the first sign o' wind, Skinflint Sam took for home,
lopin' over the ice as fast as his lungs an' old legs would take un when
pushed, an' nobody worried about _he_ any more. He was in such mad haste
that the lads laughed behind un as he passed.
"Most o' the Ragged Run crew followed, draggin' their swiles; an' them
that started early come safe t' harbour with the fat. But there's
nothin' will master a man's caution like the lust o' slaughter. Give a
Newfoundlander a club, an' show un a swile-pack, an' he'll venture far
from safety. 'Twas not until a flurry o' snow come along of a sudden
that the last o' the crew dropped what they was at an' begun t' jump for
shore like a pack o' jack-rabbits.
"With snow in the wind 'twas every man for himself. An' that means no
mercy an' less help.
"By this time the ice had begun t' feel the wind. 'Twas restless. An' a
bad promise. The pans crunched an' creaked as they settled more at ease.
The ice was goin' abroad. As the farther fields drifted off t' sea, the
floe fell loose inshore. Lanes an' pools opened up. The cake-ice tipped
an' went awash under the weight of a man. Rough goin', ecod! There was
no tellin' when open water would cut a man off where he stood.
"An' the wind was whippin' offshore, an' the snow was like dust in a
man's eyes an' mouth, an' the landmarks o' Ragged Run was nothin' but
shadows in a mist o' snow t' windward.
"Nobody knowed where Skinflint Sam was. Nobody thought about Sam. An'
wherever poor old Skinflint was--whether safe ashore or creakin'
shoreward against the wind on his last legs--he must do for himself.
'Twas no time t' succour rich or poor. Every man for himself an' the
devil take the hindmost!
"Bound out, in the mornin', Bad-Weather Tom had fetched his rodney
through the lanes. By luck an' good conduct he had managed t' get the
wee boat a fairish way out. He had beached her there on the floe--a big
pan, close by a hummock which he marked with care. And 'twas for Tom
West's little rodney that the seven last men o' Ragged Run was jumpin'.
With her afloat--an' the pack loosenin' inshore under the wind--they
could make harbour well enough afore the gale worked up the water in the
lee o' the Ragged Run hills.
"But she was a mean, small boat. There was room for six, with
safety--but room for no more. There was no room for seven. 'Twas a nasty
mess, t' be sure. You couldn't expect nothin' else. But there wasn't no
panic. Ragged Run men is accustomed t' tight places. An' they took this
one easy. Them that got there first launched the boat an' stepped in. No
fight: no fuss.
"It just happened t' be Eleazer Butt that was left. 'Twas Eleazer's
ill-luck. An' Eleazer was up in years an' had fell behind comin' over
the ice.
"'No room for me?' says he.
"'Twas sure death t' be left on the ice. The wind begun t' taste o'
frost. An' 'twas jumpin' up. 'Twould carry the floe far an' scatter it
broadcast.
"'See for yourself, lad,' says Tom.
"'Pshaw!' says Eleazer. 'That's too bad!'
"'You isn't no sorrier than me, b'y.'
"Eleazer tweaked his beard. 'Dang it!' says he. 'I wisht there _was_
room. I'm hungry for my supper.'
"'Let un in,' says one of the lads. ''Tis even chances she'll float it
out.'
"'Well,' says Eleazer, 'I doesn't want t' make no trouble----'
"'Come aboard,' says Tom. 'An' make haste.'
"'If she makes bad weather,' says Eleazer, 'I'll get out.'
"We pushed off from the pan. 'Twas failin' dusk by this time. The wind
blowed black. The frost begun t' bite. Snow come thick--just as if,
ecod, somebody up aloft was shakin' the clouds, like bags, in the gale!
An' the rodney was deep an' ticklish.
"Had the ice not kep' the water flat in the lanes an' pools, either
Eleazer would have had to get out, as he promised, or she would have
swamped like a cup. As it was, handled like dynamite, she done well
enough; an' she might have made harbour within the hour had she not been
hailed by Skinflint Sam from a small pan o' ice midway between."
Doctor Luke and Billy Topsail were intent on the tale.
"Go on," said Doctor Luke.
"A queer finish, sir."
"What happened?"