Harbor Tales Down North Part 36

"Mm-m."

Skipper Harry lifted the lad t' the counter, then, an' bent to a level with his eyes.

"Look me in the eye, son," says he. "I've a grave word t' say t' you.

Will you listen well an' ponder?"

"I'll ponder, sir, an you'll jus' forgive my fault."

"Sammy, my son," says the skipper, "I forgives it freely. Now, listen t' me. Is you listenin'? Well, now, I knows a snug harbor t' the south o' this. Tis called Yesterday Cove. An' in the harbor is a cottage, an' in the cottage is a woman; an' the woman is ample an' kind. She've no lad of her own--that kind, ample woman. She've only a husband.

That's me. An' I been thinkin'----"

I stirred myself.

"I 'low I'll meander for'ard," says I, "an' have a cup o' tea with the hands."

"Do, Tumm," says the skipper.

Well, now, I went for'ard t' have my cup o' tea an' brood on this sorry matter. 'Twas plain, however, what was in the wind; an' when I went aft again, an' begun t' meander along, breathin' the sad strains o' Toby Farr's songs on my flute, the thing had come t' pa.s.s, though no word was said about it. There was the skipper an' wee Sammy Scull, yarnin' t'gether like ol' cronies--the lad with his ears an' eyes wide t' the tale that Hard Harry was tellin'. I jus' wet my whistle with a drop o' water, t' limber my lips for the music, an' whispered away on my flute; but as I played I must listen, an' as I listened I was astonished, an' presently I give over my tootin' altogether, the better t' hearken t' the wild yarn that Hard Harry was spinnin'. 'Twas a yarn that was well knowed t' me. Man alive! Whew! 'Twas a tax on the belief--that yarn! Ay, I had heared it afore--the yarn o' how Hard Harry had chopped a way t' the crest of an iceberg in foul weather t'

spy out a course above the fog, an' o' how he had split the berg in two with the last blow of his ax, an' falled safe between the halves, an' swimmed aboard his schooner in a gale o' wind; an' though I had heared the tale verified by others, I never could swallow it whole at all, but deemed it the cleverest whopper that ever a man had invented in play.

When Skipper Harry had done, the lad turned t' me, his face in a flush o' pride.

"Mister Tumm!" says he.

"Sir t' you?" says I.

"Is you listenin' t' me?"

"I is."

"Well, then, you listen an' learn. That's what I wants _you_ t' do."

"I'll learn all I can," says I. "What is it?"

Sammy Scull slapped his knee. An' he laughed a free ripple o' glee an' looked Skipper Harry over whilst he vowed the truth of his words.

"I'll lay my liver an' lights on it," says he, "that I got the boldest pa...."

That's all.

VIII

SMALL SAM SMALL

VIII

SMALL SAM SMALL

We were lying snug from the wind and sea in Right-an'-Tight Cove--the Straits sh.o.r.e of the Labrador--when Tumm, the clerk of the _Quick as Wink_, trading the northern outports for salt cod in fall weather, told the engaging tale of Small Sam Small, of Whooping Harbor. It was raining. This was a sweeping downpour, sleety and thick, driving, as they say in those parts, from a sky as black as a wolf's throat. There was no star showing; there were cottage lights on the hills ash.o.r.e--warm and human little glimmers in the dark--but otherwise a black confusion all round about. The wind, running down from the northwest, tumbled over the cliff, and swirled, bewildered and angry, in the lee of it. Riding under Lost Craft Head, in this black turmoil, the schooner shivered a bit; and she droned aloft, and she whined below, and she restlessly rose and fell in the soft swell that came spent and frothy from the wide open through Run Away Tickle. But for all we in the forecastle knew of the bitter night--of the roaring white seas and a wind thick and stinging with spume s.n.a.t.c.hed from the long crests--it was blowing a moonlit breeze aboard. The forecastle lamp burned placidly; and the little stove was busy with its accustomed employment--laboring with much noisy fuss in the display of its genial accomplishments. Skipper and crew--and Tumm, the clerk, and I--lounged at ease in the glow and warmth. No gale from the nor'west, blow as it would in fall weather, could trouble the _Quick as Wink_, lying at anchor under Lost Craft Head in Right-an'-Tight Cove of the Labrador.

"When a man lays hold on a little strand o' human wisdom," said Tumm, breaking a heavy muse, "an' hangs his whole weight to it," he added, with care, "he've no cause t' agitate hisself with surprise if the rope snaps."

"What's _this_ preachin'?" the skipper demanded.

"That ain't no preachin'," said Tumm, resentfully "'tis a _fact_."

"Well," the skipper complained, "what you want t' go an' ask a hard question like that for?"

"Sittin' here in the forecastle o' the ol' _Quick as Wink_, in this here black gale from the nor'west," said Tumm, "along o' four disgruntled dummies an' a capital P pa.s.senger in the doldrums, I been thinkin' o' Small Sam Small o' Whoopin' Harbor. 'This here world, accordin' as she's run,' says Small Sam Small, 'is no fit place for a decent man t' dwell. The law o' life, as I was teached it,' says he, 'is _Have_; but as I sees the needs o' men, Tumm, it ought t' be _Give_. T' _have_--t' _take_ an' t' _keep_--breaks a good man's heart in the end. He lies awake in the night, Tumm--in the company of his own heart--an' he isn't able t' forget jus' how he _got_. I'm no great admirer o' the world, an' I isn't very fond o' life,' says he; 'but I knows the law o' life, an' lives the best I can accordin' t' the rules I've learned. I was cast out t' make my way as a wee small lad; an' I was teached the law o' life by harsh masters--by nights' labor, an'

kicks, an' robbery, Tumm, by wind, an' cold, an' great big seas, by a empty belly, an' the fear o' death in my small heart. So I'm a mean man. I'm the meanest man in Newf'un'land. They says my twin sister died o' starvation at the age o' two months along o' my greed. May be: I don't know--but I hopes I never was born the mean man I is. Anyhow,'

says he, 'Small Sam Small--that's me--an' I stands by! I'm a d.a.m.ned mean man, an' I isn't unaware; but they isn't a man on the St. John's waterside--an' they isn't a big-bug o' Water Street--can say t' _me_, "Do this, ye bay-noddie!" or, "Do that, ye bankrupt out-porter!" or, "Sign this, ye coast's whelp!" Still an' all, Tumm,' says he, 'I don't like myself very much, an' I isn't very fond o' the company o' the soul my soul's become.'

"'Never you mind, Sam Small,' says I; 'we've all done dirty tricks in our time.'

"'All?'

"'Never a mother's son in all the world past fourteen years,' says I, 'hasn't a ghost o' wicked conduct t' haunt his hours alone.'

"'You, too, Tumm?'

"'_Me?_' says I. 'Good Heavens!'

"'Uh-huh,' says he. 'I 'low; but that don't comfort _me_ so very much.

You see, Tumm, I got t' live with myself, an' bein' quite well acquainted with myself, I don't _like_ to. They isn't much domestic peace in my ol' heart; an' they isn't no divorce court I ever heared tell of, neither here nor hereafter, in which a man can free hisself from his own d.a.m.ned soul.'

"'Never you mind,' says I.

"'Uh-huh,' says he. 'You see, I _don't_ mind. I--I--I jus' don't _dast_! But if I could break the law, as I've been teached it,' says he, 'they isn't nothin' in the world I'd rather do, Tumm, than found a norphan asylum.'

"'Maybe you will,' says I.