Every Man for Himself Part 20

Not pray? Ver' religious man, Skip' Jim-ver', ver' religious. Pray? Oh, I know _him_. Pray? You bet he pray! You ask Skip' Jim to pray, an' he pray-oh, he pray, you bet! 'O G.o.d,' he pray, 'I am ver' much 'blige' for Tom Shiva. I am ver' much 'blige' he come to Skeleton Teekle. I am ver'

much 'blige' he have thee soft heart. I am ver' much 'blige' you fix thee heart to help poor ol' Skip' Jim. He good Jew, O G.o.d.' (Pooh! I am Syrian man-not Jew. But I am not tell, for I am ver' good business man).

'Forgive this poor Tom Shiva, O my dear G.o.d!'

"I get ver' tired with thee prayin'. I am ver' good business man. I am want thee gold.

"'Skip' Jim!' I whis-pair. 'Oh, Skip' Jim!' I say. 'Thee bargain! Fix thee bargain with thee dear G.o.d.' My heart is ver' mad with thee fear.

'Fix thee bargain with thee good G.o.d,' I say. 'Oh, Skip' Jim!' I whis-pair. 'Queek! I am offer seventy-five dollar.'

"Then he get up from thee knee. Ver' obstinate man-ver', ver' obstinate man, this ol' Skip' Jim. He get up from thee knee. What he theenk? Eh?

He theenk he ver' good business man. He theenk he beat Tom Shiva by thee sin. Want G.o.d? Oh no! Not want G.o.d to know, you bet!

"'I am want one hundred dollar,' he say, ver' cross, 'for thee heap of spoil' gold an' silver. Thee G.o.d is bus-ee. I am do this business by thee 'lone. Thee dear G.o.d is ver', ver' bus-ee jus' now. I am not bother him no more.'

"'Ver' well,' I say. 'I am geeve you eighty.'

"'Come,' he say; 'ninety will have do.'

"'Ver' well,' I say. 'You are my friend. I geeve you eighty-five.'

"'Ver' well,' he say. 'I am love you ver' much, Tom Shiva. I take it.

Ver' kind of you, Tom Shiva, to buy all thee spoil' gold an' silver. I am hope you have not lose thee money.'

"I am ver' hones' business man. Eh? What I say? I say I lose thee money?

No, no! I am thee ver' mos' hones' business man in Newf'un'lan'. I am too hones' to say thee lie.

"'I am take thee risk,' I say. 'You are my friend, Skip' Jim,' I say. 'I am take thee risk. I am geeve you eighty-five dollar for all the spoil'

gold an' silver-half cash, half trade.... I am have mos' wonderful suit clothes for ver' cheap....'"

And the fool of Skeleton Tickle was left with a suit of shoddy tweed and fifty-seven dollars in unspoiled gold and silver coin, believing that he had overreached the peddler from Damascus and New York, piously thanking G.o.d for the opportunity, ascribing glory to him for the success, content that it should be so.... And Tanous Shiva departed by the mail-boat, as he had come, with the seven lobster-tins of gold and the half-bushel of silver which three generations had labored to acc.u.mulate; and he went south to St. John's, where he converted the spoiled coin into a bank credit of ten thousand dollars, content that it should be so. And thereupon he set out again to trade....

The mail-boat was now riding at anchor within the harbor of Skeleton Tickle. Rain was falling-thin, penetrating, cold, driven by the wind. On the bleak, wet hills, the cottages, vague in the mist, cowered in dumb wretchedness, like men of sodden patience who wait without hope. A punt put out from sh.o.r.e-came listlessly toward the steamer for the mail.

"Ho! Tom Timms!" the Syrian shouted. "That you, Tom Timms? How Skip' Jim All? How my ol', good friend Skip' Jim All?"

The boat was under the quarter. Tom Timms shipped his oars, wiped the rain from his whiskers, then looked up-without feeling.

"Dead," he said.

"Dead!" The man turned to me. "I am thank thee good G.o.d," he whispered, reverently, "that I am get thee gold in time." He shuddered. "O, my G.o.d!" he muttered. "What if I have come thee too late!"

"Ay, dead," Tom Timms repeated. "He sort o' went an' jus' died."

"Oh, dear! How have he come to die? Oh, my poor friend, ol' Skip' Jim!

How have he come by thee death?"

"Hanged hisself."

"Hanged hisself! Oh, dear! Why have thee ol' Skip' Jim be so fearful wicked?"

It was an unhappy question.

"Well," Tom Timms answered, in a colorless drawl, "he got a trap-leader when he found out what you done. He just sort o' went an' got a trap-leader an' hanged hisself in the fish-stage-when he found out what you done."

The Syrian glanced at me. I glanced at him. Our eyes met; his were steady, innocent, pitiful; my own shifted to the closing bank of gray fog.

"Business," he sighed, "is business."

The words repeated themselves interminably-a monotonous dirge. Business is business.... Business is business.... Business is business....

VI-A COMEDY OF CANDLESTICK COVE

It was windy weather: and had been-for an exasperating tale of dusks and dawns. It was not the weather of variable gales, which blow here and there, forever to the advantage of some Newfoundland folk; it was the weather of ill easterly winds, in gloomy conjunction bringing fog, rain, breaking seas, drift-ice, dispiriting cold. From Nanny's Old Head the outlook was perturbing: the sky was hid, with its familiar warnings and promises; gigantic breakers fell with swish and thud upon the black rocks below, flinging l.u.s.treless white froth into the gray mist; and the grounds, where the men of Candlestick Cove must cast lines and haul traps, were in an ill-tempered, white-capped tumble-black waves rolling out of a melancholy fog, hanging low, which curtained the sea beyond.

The hands of the men of Candlestick Cove were raw with salt-water sores; all charms against the affliction of toil in easterly gales had failed-bra.s.s bracelets and incantations alike. And the eyes of the men of Candlestick Cove were alert with apprehensive caution: tense, quick to move, clear and hard under drawn brows. With a high sea perversely continuing beyond the harbor tickle, there was no place in the eyes of men for the light of humor or love, which thrive in security. Windy weather, indeed! 'Twas a time for men to _be_ men!

"I 'low I never seed nothin' _like_ it," Jonathan Stock complained.

The sea, breaking upon the Rock o' Wishes, and the wind, roaring past, confused old Tom Lull.

"What say?" he shouted.

"Nothin' _like_ it," said Jonathan Stock.

They had come in from the sea with empty punts, and they were now pulling up the harbor, side by side, toward the stage-heads, which were lost in the misty dusk. Old Tom had hung in the lee of the Rock o'

Wishes until Jonathan Stock came flying over the tickle breaker in a cloud of spray. The wind had been in the east beyond the experience of eighty years; it was in his aged mind to exchange opinions upon the marvel.

"Me neither," said he.

They were drawing near Herring Point, within the harbor, where the noise of wind and sea, in an easterly gale, diminishes.

"I 'low I _never_ seed nothin' like it," said Jonathan Stock.

"Me neither, Skipper Jonathan."

"Never _seed_ nothin' like it."

They pulled on in silence-until the froth of Puppy Rock was well astern.

"Me neither," said Tom.

"_I_ never seed nothin' like it," Jonathan grumbled.