Every Man for Himself Part 17

"An' this was Jimmie Tool! Why, sir, I knowed Jimmie Tool when he was a lad o' twelve. A hearty lad, sir, towheaded an' stout an' strong an'

lively, with freckles on his nose, an' a warm, kind, white-toothed little grin for such as put a hand on his shoulder. Wasn't n.o.body ever, man, woman, or child, that touched Jimmie Tool in kindness 'ithout bein'

loved. He jus' couldn't help it. You jus' be good t' Jimmie Tool, you jus' put a hand on his head an' smile, an' Jimmie 'lowed they was no man like you. 'You got a awful kind heart, lad,' says I, when he was twelve; 'an' when you grows up,' says I, 'I 'low the folk o' this coast will be glad you was born.' An' here was Jimmie Tool, swarmin' up the Black Bight cliffs, bent on the splittin' o' Archibald Shott, which same Archibald I had took t' Sunday-school, by the wee, soft hand of un, many a time, when he was a flabby-fleshed, chatterin' rollypolly o' four!

Bein' jus' a ol' fool, sir-bein' jus' a soft ol' fool hangin' over the Black Bight cliffs-I wisht, somehow, that little Jimmie Tool had never needed t' grow up.

"'Jimmie," says I, 'what you _really_ goin' t' do?'

"'Well,' says he, 'jus' a minute.'

"'Very well,' says I; 'but you better leave poor Arch alone.'

"'How's his grip?' says he.

"'None too good,' says I; 'a touch would dislodge un.'

"'If I cotched un by the ankle, then,' says he, 'I 'low I could jerk un loose.'

"'You hadn't better _try_,' says Arch.

"'Jim,' says I, 'does you know how high up you really is?'

"Jim jus' reached as quick as a snake for Archibald Shott's foot, but come somewhat short of a grip. 'Shoot it!' says he, 'I can on'y touch un with my finger. I'll have t' climb higher.'

"Up he come a inch or so.

"'You try that again, Jim,' says Arch, 'an' I'll kick you in the head.'

"'You can't,' says Jim; 'you da.s.sn't move a foot from that ledge.'

"'Try an' see,' says Arch.

"'I can see very well, Arch, b'y,' says Jim. 'If you wriggles a toe, you'll fall.'

"Then, sir, I cotched ear o' the skipper singin' out from below. Seemed so far down when my eyes dropped that my fingers digged theirselves deep in the moss and clawed around for better grip. They isn't no beach below, sir, nor broken rock, as you knows; the cliffs rise from deep water. Skipper and crew was on the ice; an' I seed that the wind had blowed the pans off sh.o.r.e. Wind was up now: blowin' clean t' sea, with flakes o' snow swirlin' in the lee o' the cliff. It fair sc.r.a.ped the moss I was lyin' on. Seemed t' me, sir, that if it blowed much higher I'd need my toes for hangin' on. A gust cotched off my cap an' swep' it over the sea. Lord! it made me shiver t' watch the course o' that ol'

cloth cap! Blow? Oh, ay-blowin''! An' I 'lowed that the skipper was nervous in the wind. He sung out again, waved his arms, pointed t' the sea, an' then ducked his head, tucked in his elbows, an' put off for the schooner, with the crew scurryin' like weak-flippered swile in his wake.

Sort o' made me laugh, sir; they looked so round an' squat an'

short-legged, 'way down below, sprawlin' over the ice in mad haste t'

board the _Billy Boy_ afore she drifted off in the gale. Laugh? Ay, sir!

I laughed. Didn't seem t' me, sir, that Jim Tool really _meant_ t' kill Archibald Shott. Jus' seemed, somehow, like a rough game, with somebody like t' get hurted if they kep' it up. So I laughed; but I gulped that laugh back t' my stomach, sir, when I slapped eyes again on Archibald Shott!

"'Don't do that, Arch,' says I. 'You'll _fall_!'

"'Well,' says he, 'Jim says I can't kick un in the head.'

"'No more you can,' says Jim; 'an' you da.s.sn't try.'

"Arch was belly foremost t' the cliff-toes on a ledge an' hands gripped aloft. He was able t' look up, but made poor work o' lookin' down over his shoulder; an' I 'lowed, him not bein' able t' see Jim, that the minute he reached out a foot he'd be cotched an' ripped from his hold, if Jim really wanted t' do it. Anyhow, he got his fingers in a lower crack. 'Twas a wonderful strain t' put on any man's hands an' arms: I could see his forearms shake along of it. But safe at this, he loosed one foot from the ledge, let his body sink, an' begun t' kick out after Jim, jus' feelin' about like a blind man, with his face jammed again'

the rock. Jus' in a minute Jim reached for that foot. Cotched it, too; but no sooner did Arch feel them fingers closin' in than he kicked out for life an' got loose. The wrench near overset Jim. He made a quick grab for the rock an' got a hand there jus' in time. Jim laughed. It may be that he thunk Arch would be satisfied an' draw up t' rest. But Arch 'lowed for one more kick; an' this, sir, cotched Slow Jim Tool fair on the cheek when poor Jim wasn't lookin'. Must o' hurt Jim. When his head fell back, his face was all screwed up, jus' like a child's in pain. I seed, too, that his muscles was slack, his knees givin' way, an' that his right hand, with the fingers spread out crooked, was clawin' for a hold, ecod! out in the air, where they wasn't nothin' but thin wind t'

grasp. Then I didn't see no more, but jus' lied flat on the moss, my eyes fallen shut, limp an' sweaty o' body, waitin' t' come to, as from the grip o' the Old Hag.

"When I looked again, sir, Archibald Shott had both feet toed back on the ledge, an' Slow Jim Tool, below, was still stickin' like a barnacle t' the cliff.

"'Jim,' says I, 'if you don't stop this foolishness I'll drop a rock on you.'

"'This won't do,' says he.

"'No,' says I; 'it _won't_!'

"'I 'low, Tumm,' says he, 'that I better swarm above an' come down.'

"'What for?' says I.

"'Step on his fingers,' says he.

"Then, sir, the squall broke; a rush an' howl o' northerly wind! Come like a pack o' mad ghosts: a break from the spruce forest-a flight over the barren-a great leap into s.p.a.ce. Blue-black clouds, low an' thick, rushin' over the cliff, spilt dusk an' snow below. 'Twas as though the Lord had cast a black blanket o' night in haste an' anger upon the sea.

An' I never knowed the snow so thick afore; 'twas jus' emptied out on the world like bags o' flour. Dusty, frosty snow; it got in my eyes an'

nose an' throat. 'Twasn't a minute afore sea an' sh.o.r.e was wiped from sight an' Jim Tool an' Archibald Shott was turned t' black splotches in a mist. I crabbed away from the brink. Wasn't no sense, sir, in lyin'

there in the push an' tug o' the wind. An' I sot me down t' wait; an'

by-an'-by I heard a cry, a dog's bark o' terror, from deep in the throat, sir, that wasn't no scream o' the gale. So I crawled for'ard, on hands an' knees that bore me ill, t' peer below, but seed no form o'

flesh an' blood, nor got a human answer t' my hail. I turned again t'

wait; an' I faced inland, where was the solemn forest, far off an' hid in a swirl o' snow, with but the pa.s.sion of a gale t' bear. An' there I stood, sir, turned away from the rage o' hearts that beat in b.r.e.a.s.t.s like ours, until the squall failed, an' the snow thinned t' playful flakes, an' the gray clouds, broken above the wilderness, soaked crimson from the sun like blood.

"'Twas Jim Tool that roused me.

"'That you, Jim?' says I.

"'Ay,' says he; 'you been waitin' here for me, Tumm?'

"'Ay,' says I; 'been waitin'.'

"'Tired?' says he.

"'No,' says I; 'not tired.'

"There come then, sir, a sort o' smile upon him-fond an' grateful an'

childlike. I seed it glow in the pits where his eyes was. 'It was kind,'

says he, 't' wait. You always _was_ kind t' me, Tumm.'

"'Oh no,' says I; 'not kind.'

"'Tumm,' says he, kickin' at a rock in the snow, 'I done it,' says he, 'by the ankle.'

"'Then,' says I, 'G.o.d help you, Jim!'

"He come close t' me, sir, jus' like he used t' do, when he was a lad, in trouble.

"'Keep off, Jim!' says I.

"'Why so?' says he. 'Isn't you goin' t' be friends 'ith me any more?'