_In Which, While Doctor Luke and Billy Topsail Rest Unsuspecting at
Candlestick Cove, Tom Lute, the Father of the Little Fiddler of Amen
Island, Sharpens an Axe in the Wood-Shed, and the Reader is Left to
Draw His Own Conclusions Respecting the Sinister Business_
It was the boast of the Little Fiddler of Amen Island that he had lamed
many a man and maid. "An' ecod!" said he, his blue eyes alight, his
clean little teeth showing in a mischievous grin, his round cheeks
flushed with delight in the gift of power; "there's no leg between the
Norman Light an' Cape Mugford so sodden it can balk me when I've the
wind in my favour!"--meaning to imply, with more truth than modesty,
that the alluring invitation of his music was altogether irresistible
when he was in the mood to provoke a response.
"Had I the will," said he, "I could draw tears from the figurehead o'
the _Roustabout_. An' one o' these days, when I've the mind t' show my
power," said he, darkly, "maybe I'll do it, too!"
He was young--he was twelve. Terry Lute was his name. To be known as
the Little Fiddler of Amen Island as far north as the world of that
coast sailed was the measure of the celebrity he coveted. And that was a
good deal: it is a long way for fame to carry--north to the uttermost
fishing-berths of the Labrador. Unquestionably the Little Fiddler of
Amen Island was of the proportions of a Master.
It was aboard a trading schooner--a fly-by-night visitor at Amen Island
(not Skinflint Sam's trader from Ragged Run)--that the Little Fiddler of
Amen Island had first clapped eyes on a fiddle and heard the strains of
it. That was long ago--oh, long, long ago! Terry Lute was a mere child,
then, as he recalled, in a wistful amusement with those old days, and
was accustomed to narrate--seven or thereabouts. An' 'twas the month o'
June--sweet weather, ecod! (said he) an' after dark an' the full o' the
moon. And Terry had harkened to the strain--some plaintive imaginings of
the melancholy clerk in the cabin, perhaps; and he had not been able to
bear more--not another wail or sob of it (said he)--but had run full
tilt to his mother's knee to tell her first of all the full wonder of
the adventure.
'Twas called a fiddle (said he)--'twas played with what they called a
bow; an' oh, woman (said he), what music could be made by means of it!
And Terry could play it--he had seen the clerk sawin' away--sawin' an'
sawin' away; an' he had learned how 'twas done jus' by lookin'--in a
mere peep. 'Twas nothin' at all t' do (said he)--not a whit o' bother
for a clever lad. Jus' give un a fiddle an' a bow--he'd show un how
'twas done!
"I got t' have one, mama!" he declared. "Oo-sh! I jus' got t'!"
His mother laughed at this fine fervour.
"Mark me!" he stormed. "I'll have one o' they fiddles afore very long.
An' I'll have folk fair shakin' their legs off t' the music I makes!"
* * * * *
When old Bob Likely, the mail-man, travelling afoot, southbound from
Elegant Tickle to Our Harbour and the lesser harbours of Mad Harry and
Thank-the-Lord, a matter of eighty miles--when old Bob Likely, on the
night of Doctor Luke's arrival at Candlestick Cove, rounded Come-Along
Point of Amen Island and searched the shadows ahead for his
entertainment, his lodgings for the night were determined and
disclosed.
It was late--a flurry of snow falling and the moon overcast with a
thickening drab scud; and old Bob Likely's disheartened expectation on
the tumbled ice of Ships' Run, between Point o' Bay of the Harbourless
Shore and Amen Island, had consequently discovered the cottages of his
destination dark--the windows black, the fires dead, the kitchens frosty
and the folk of Amen Island long ago turned in.
Of the thirty cottages of Amen, however, snuggled under thick blankets
of snow, all asleep in the gray night, one was wide awake--lighted up as
though for some festivity; and for the hospitality of its lamps and
smoking chimney old Bob Likely shaped his astonished course.
"'Tis a dance!" he reflected, heartening his step. "I'll shake a foot if
I lame myself!"
Approaching Tom Lute's cottage from the harbour ice, old Bob Likely
cocked his ear for the thump and shuffle of feet and the lively music of
the Little Fiddler of Amen Island. It was the Little Fiddler's way to
boast: "They'll sweat the night! Mark me! I'm feelin' fine. They'll shed
their jackets! I'll have their boots off!"
And old Bob Likely expected surely to discover the Little Fiddler,
perched on the back of a chair, the chair aloft on the kitchen table,
mischievously delighting in the abandoned antics of the dancers, the
while a castaway sealing crew, jackets shed and boots kicked off,
executed a reel with the maids of Amen Island.
But there was no music--no thump or shuffle of feet or lively strain;
the house was still--except for a whizz and metallic squeaking in the
kitchen shed to which old Bob Likely made his way to lay off the sacred
bag of His Majesty's Mail and his own raquets and brush himself clean of
snow.
* * * * *
Tom Lute was whirling a grindstone by candle-light in the shed. When Bob
Likely lifted the latch and pushed in he was interrupted and startled.
"Who's that?" he demanded.
"'Tis His Majesty's Mail, Tom."
"That you, Bob?" Tom's drawn face lightened with heartiness. "Well,
well! Come in. You're welcome. We've need of a lusty man in this house
the night. If the thing haves t' be done, Bob, you'll come handy for
holdin'. You come across from Candlestick?"
Bob threw off his pack.
"No," said he, "I come over from Point o' Bay."
"Up from Laughter Bight, Bob?"
"All the way."
"Any word o' Doctor Luke down north?"
"Ay; he's down north somewheres."
"Whereabouts, Bob?"
"I heard of un at Trap Harbour."
"Trap Harbour! Was he workin' north, Bob?"
"There was sickness at Huddle Cove."
"At Huddle Cove? My, my! 'Tis below Cape Blind. He'll not be this way in
a fortnight. Oh, dear me!"
By this time His Majesty's Mail was stamping his feet and brooming the
snow from his seal-hide boots. In answer to his violence the kitchen
door fell ajar. And Bob Likely cocked his ear. Queer sounds--singular
scraps of declaration and pleading--issued to the wood-shed.
There was the tap-tap of a wooden leg. Bob Likely identified the
presence and agitated pacing of the maternal grandfather of the Little
Fiddler of Amen Island. And there was a whimper and a sob. It was the
Little Fiddler.
A woman crooned:
"Hush, dear--ah, hush, now!"
A high-pitched, querulous voice:
"That's what we done when I sailed along o' Small Sam Small aboard the
_Royal Bloodhound_." And repeated, the wooden leg tap-tapping meanwhile:
"That's what we done aboard the _Royal Bloodhound_. Now, mark me! That's
what we done t' Cap'n Small Sam Small."
A young roar, then:
"I'll never have it done t' me!"
And the woman again:
"Ah, hush, dear! Never mind! Ah--hush, now!"
To which there responded a defiant bawl:
"I tells you I won't have it done t' me!"
By all this, to be sure, old Bob Likely, with his ear cocked and his
mouth fallen open in amazement, was deeply mystified.
"Look you, Tom!" said he, suspiciously; "what you doin' out here in the
frost?"
"Who? Me?" Tom was evasive and downcast.
"Ay."
"Nothin' much."
"'Tis a cold place for that, Tom. An' 'tis a poor lie you're tellin'.
'Tis easy t' see, Tom, that you're busy."
"Ah, well, I got a little job on hand."
"What is your job?"
"This here little job I'm doin' now?"
"Ay."
"Nothin' much."
"What _is_ it?"
Tom was reluctant. "I'm puttin' an edge on my axe," he replied.
"What for, Tom?"
Tom hesitated. "Well----" he drawled. And then, abruptly: "Nothin'
much." He was both grieved and agitated.
"But what _for_?"
"I wants it good an' sharp."
"What you want it good an' sharp for?"
"An axe serves best," Tom evaded, "when 'tis sharp."
"Look you, Tom!" said Bob; "you're behavin' in a very queer way, an' I
gives you warnin' o' the fac'. What happens? Here I comes quite
unexpected on you by candle-light in the shed. Who is I? I'm His
Majesty's Mail. Mark that, Tom! An' what does I find you doin'? Puttin'
an edge on an axe. I asks you why you're puttin' an edge on your axe.
An' you won't tell. If I didn't know you for a mild man, Tom, I'd fancy
you was tired o' your wife."
"Tired o' my wife!" Tom exploded, indignantly. "I isn't goin' t' kill my
wife!"
"Who _is_ you goin' t' kill?"
"I isn't goin' t' kill nobody."
"Well, _what_ you goin' t' kill?"
"I isn't goin' t' kill nothin'."
"Well, then," Bob burst out, "what in thunder is you puttin' an edge on
your axe for out here in the frost by candle-light at this time o'
night?"
"Who? Me?"
"Ay--you!"
"I got some doctorin' t' do."
Bob lifted his brows. "Hum!" he coughed. "You usually do your doctorin'
with an axe?" he inquired.
"No," said Tom, uneasily; "not with an axe."
"What you usually use, Tom?"
"What I usually uses, Bob," Tom replied, "is a decoction an' a spoon."
"Somebody recommend an axe for this complaint?"
"'Tisn't that, Bob. 'Tis this way. When I haves a job t' do, Bob, I
always uses what serves best an' lies handy. That's jus' plain common
sense an' cleverness. Well, then, jus' now an axe suits me to a tee. An'
so I'm puttin' a good edge on the only axe I got."
"An axe," Bob observed, "will do quick work."
"That's jus' what I thought!" cried Tom, delighted. "Quick an'
painless."
"There's jus' one trouble about an axe," Bob went on, dryly, "when used
in the practice o' medicine. I never heard it stated--but I fancy 'tis
true. What's done with an axe," he concluded, "is hard t' repair."