Doctor Luke of the Labrador Part 25

SKIPPER TOMMY GETS A LETTER

It came from the north, addressed, in pale, sprawling characters, to Skipper Tommy Lovejoy of our harbour--a crumpled, greasy, ill-odoured missive: little enough like a letter from a lady, bearing (as we supposed) a coy appeal to the tender pa.s.sion. But----

"Ay, Davy," my sister insisted. "'Tis from _she_. Smell it for yourself."

I sniffed the letter.

"Eh, Davy?"

"Well, Bessie," I answered, doubtfully, "I'm not able t' call t' mind this minute just how she _did_. But I'm free t' say," regarding the streaks and thumb-marks with quick disfavour, "that it _looks_ a lot like her."

My sister smiled upon me with an air of loftiest superiority. "Smell it again," said she.

"Well," I admitted, after sniffing long and carefully, "I does seem t'

have got wind o'----"

"There's no deceivin' a woman's nose," my sister declared, positively.

"'Tis a letter from the woman t' Wolf Cove."

"Then," said I, with a frown, "we'd best burn it."

She mused a moment. "He never got a letter afore," she said, looking up.

"Not many folk has," I objected.

"He'd be wonderful proud," she continued, "o' just gettin' a letter."

"But she's a wily woman," I protested, in warning, "an' he's a most obligin' man. I fair shiver t' think o' leadin' un into temptation."

"'Twould do no harm, Davy," said she, "just t' _show_ un the letter."

"'Tis a fearful responsibility t' take."

"'Twould please un so!" she wheedled.

"Ah, well!" I sighed. "You're a wonderful hand at gettin' your own way, Bessie."

When the punts of our folk came sweeping through the tickles and the Gate, in the twilight of that day, I went with the letter to the Rat Hole: knowing that Skipper Tommy would by that time be in from the Hook-an'-Line grounds; for the wind was blowing fair from that quarter.

I found the twins pitching the catch into the stage, with great hilarity--a joyous, frolicsome pair: in happy ignorance of what impended. They gave me jolly greeting: whereupon, feeling woefully guilty, I sought the skipper in the house, where he had gone (they said) to get out of his sea-boots.

I was not disposed to dodge the issue. "Skipper Tommy," said I, bluntly, "I got a letter for you."

He stared.

"'Tis no joke," said I, with a wag, "as you'll find, when you gets t'

know where 'tis from; but 'tis nothin' t' be scared of."

"Was you sayin', Davy," he began, at last, trailing off into the silence of utter amazement, "that you--been--gettin'--a----"

"I was sayin'," I answered, "that the mail-boat left you a letter."

He came close. "Was you sayin'," he whispered in my ear, with a jerk of his head to the north, "that 'tis from----"

I nodded.

"_She?_"

"Ay."

He put his tongue in his cheek--and gave me a slow, sly wink. "Ecod!"

said he.

I was then mystified by his strange behaviour: this occurring while he made ready for the splitting-table. He chuckled, he tweaked his long nose until it flared, he scratched his head, he sighed, he scowled, he broke into vociferous laughter; and he muttered "Ecod!" an innumerable number of times, voicing, thereby, the gamut of human emotions and the degrees thereof, from lowest melancholy to a crafty sort of cynicism and thence to the height of smug elation. And, presently, when he had peered down the path to the stage, where the twins were forking the fish, he approached, stepping mysteriously, his gigantic forefinger raised in a caution to hush.

"Davy," he whispered, "you isn't got that letter _aboard_ o' you, is you?"

My heart misgave me; but--I nodded.

"Well, well!" cried he. "I'm thinkin'," he added, his surprise somewhat mitigated by curiosity, "that you'll be havin' it in your jacket pocket."

"Ay," was my sharp reply; "but I'll not read it."

"No, no!" said he, severely, lifting a protesting hand, which he had now encased in a reeking splitting-mit. "I'd not _have_ you read it. Sure, I'd never 'low _that_! Was you thinkin', David Roth," now so reproachfully that my doubts seemed treasonable, "that I'd _want_ you to? Me--that nibbled once? Not I, lad! But as you _does_ happen t' have that letter in your jacket, you wouldn't mind me just takin' a _look_ at it, would you?"

I produced the crumpled missive--with a sigh: for the skipper's drift was apparent.

"My letter!" said he, gazing raptly. "Davy, lad, I'd kind o'--like t'--just t'--_feel_ it. They wouldn't be no hurt in me _holdin'_ it, would they?"

I pa.s.sed it over.

"Now, Davy," he declared, his head on one side, the letter held gingerly before him, "I wouldn't read that letter an I could. No, lad--not an I could! But I've heared tell she had a deal o' l'arnin'; an' I'd kind o'--like t'--take a peek inside. Just," he added, hurriedly, "t' see what power she had for writin'."

This pretense to a purely artistic interest in the production was wondrously trying to the patience.

"Skipper Davy," he went on, awkwardly, skippering me with a guile that was shameless, "it bein' from a woman--bein' from a _woman_, now, says I--'twould be no more 'n po-lite t' open it. Come, now, Davy!" he challenged. "You wouldn't _say_ 'twould be more 'n po-lite, would you?

It bein' from a lone woman?"

I made no answer: for, at that moment, I caught sight of the twins, listening with open-mouthed interest from the threshold.

"I wonders, Davy," the skipper confided, taking the leap, at last, "what she've gone an' writ!"

"Jacky," I burst out, in disgust, turning to the twins, "I just _knowed_ he'd get t' wonderin'!"

Skipper Tommy started: he grew shamefaced, all in a moment; and he seemed now first conscious of guilty wishes.

"Timmie," said Jacky, hoa.r.s.ely, from the doorway, "she've writ."