CHAPTER XXI
In Which a Crœsus of Ragged Run Drives a Hard Bargain in a Gale of Wind
"An' there the ol' codger was squattin'," Skipper Joe's tale went on, "his ol' face pinched an' woebegone, his bag o' bones wrapped up in his coonskin coat, his pan near flush with the sea, with little black waves already beginnin' t' wash over it.
"A sad sight, believe me! Poor old Skinflint Sam bound out t' sea without hope on a wee pan o' ice!
"'Got any room for me?' says he.
"We ranged alongside.
"'She's too deep as it is,' says Tom. 'I'm wonderful sorry, Skipper Sam.'
"An' he was.
"'Ay,' says Sam; 'you isn't got room for no more. She'd sink if I put foot in her.'
"'Us'll come back,' says Tom.
"'No use, Tom,' says Sam. 'You knows that well enough. 'Tis no place out here for a Ragged Run punt. Afore you could get t' shore an' back night will be down an' this here gale will be a blizzard. You'd never be able t' find me.'
"'I 'low not,' says Tom.
"'Oh, no,' says Sam. 'No use, b'y.'
"'Skipper Sam,' says Tom, 'I'm sorry!'
"'Ay,' says Sam; ''tis a sad death for an ol' man – squattin' out here all alone on the ice an' shiverin' with the cold until he shakes his poor damned soul out.'
"'Not damned!' cries Tom. 'Oh, don't say it!'
"'Ah, well!' says Sam; 'sittin' here all alone I been thinkin'.'
"''Tisn't by any man's wish that you're here, poor man!' says Tom.
"'Oh, no,' says Sam. 'No blame t' nobody. My time's come. That's all. But I wisht I had a seat in your rodney, Tom.'
"An' then Tom chuckled.
"'What you laughin' at?' says Sam.
"'I got a comical idea,' says Tom.
"'Laughin' at me, Tom?'
"'Oh, I'm jus' laughin'.'
'"'Tis neither time nor place, Tom,' says Sam, 't' laugh at an old man.'
"Tom roared. Ay, he slapped his knee, an' he throwed back his head, an' he roared! 'Twas enough almost t' swamp the boat.
"'For shame!' says Sam.
"An' more than Skinflint Sam thought so.
"'Skipper Sam,' says Tom, 'you're rich, isn't you?'
"'I got money,' says Sam.
"'Sittin' out here all alone,' says Tom, 'you been thinkin' a deal, you says?'
"'Well,' says Sam, 'I'll not deny that I been havin' a little spurt o' sober thought.'
"'You been thinkin' that money wasn't much, after all?'
"'Ay.'
"'An' that all your money in a lump wouldn't buy you passage ashore?'
"'Oh, some few small thoughts on that order,' says Sam. ''Tis perfectly natural.'
"'Money talks,' says Tom.
"'Tauntin' me again, Tom?'
"'No, I isn't,' says Tom. 'I means it. Money talks. What'll you give for my seat in the boat?'
"''Tis not for sale, Tom.'
"The lads begun t' grumble. It seemed just as if Bad-Weather Tom West was makin' game of an ol' man in trouble. 'Twas either that or lunacy. An' there was no time for nonsense off the Ragged Run coast in a spring gale of wind. But I knowed what Tom West was about. You sees, sir, I knowed what you told him. An' as for me, fond as I was o' poor Tom West, I had no mind t' interrupt his bargain.
"'Hist!' Tom whispered t' the men in the rodney. 'I knows what I'm doin'.'
"'A mad thing, Tom!'
"'Oh, no!' says Tom. ''Tis the cleverest thing ever I thought of. Well,' says he to Sam, 'how much?'
"'No man sells his life.'
"'Life or no life, my place in this boat is for sale,' says Tom. 'Money talks. Come, now. Speak up. Us can't linger here with night comin' down.'
"'What's the price, Tom?'
"'How much you got, Sam?'
"'Ah, well, I can afford a stiffish price, Tom. Anything you say in reason will suit me. You name the price, Tom. I'll pay.'
"'Ay, ye crab!' says Tom. 'I'm namin' prices, now. Look you, Sam! You're seventy-three. I'm fifty-three. Will you grant that I'd live t' be as old as you?'
"'I'll grant it, Tom.'
"'I'm not sayin' I would,' says Tom. 'You mark that.'
"'Ah, well, I'll grant it, anyhow.'
"'I been an industrious man all my life, Skipper Sam. None knows it better than you. Will you grant that I'd earn a hundred and fifty dollars a year if I lived?'
"'Ay, Tom.'
"Down come a gust o' wind.
"'Have done!' says one of the lads. 'Here's the gale come down with the dark. Us'll all be cast away.'
"'Rodney's mine, isn't she?' says Tom.
"Well, she was. Nobody could say nothin' t' that. An' nobody did.
"'That's three thousand dollars, Sam,' says Tom. 'Three – thousand – dollars!'
"'Ay,' says Sam, 'she calculates that way. But you've forgot t' deduct your livin' from the total. Not that I minds,' says he. ''Tis just a business detail.'
"'I'll not be harsh!' says Tom.
"'Another thing, Tom,' says Sam. 'You're askin' me t' pay for twenty years o' life when I can use but a few. God knows how many!'
"'I got you where I wants you,' says Tom, 'but I isn't got the heart t' grind you. Will you pay two thousand dollars for my seat in the boat?'
"'If you is fool enough t' take it, Tom.'
"'There's something t' boot,' says Tom. 'I wants t' die out o' debt.'
"'You does, Tom.'
"'An' my father's bill is squared?'
"'Ay.'
"''Tis a bargain!' says Tom. 'God witness!'
"'Lads,' says Skinflint Sam t' the others in the rodney, 'I calls you t' witness that I didn't ask Tom West for his seat in the boat. I isn't no coward. I've asked no man t' give up his life for me. This here bargain is a straight business deal. Business is business. 'Tis not my proposition. An' I calls you t' witness that I'm willin' t' pay what he asks. He've something for sale. I wants it. I've the money t' buy it. The price is his. I'll pay it.'
"Then he turned to Tom.
"'You wants this money paid t' your wife, Tom?' says he.
"'Ay,' says Tom, 't' my wife. She'll know why.'
"'Very good,' says Skinflint. 'You've my word that I'll do it.' An' then: 'Wind's jumpin' up, Tom.'
"'I wants your oath. The wind will bide for that. Hold up your right hand.'
"Skinflint shivered in a blast o' the gale.
"'I swears,' says he.
"'Lads,' says Tom, 'you'll shame this man to his grave if he fails t' pay!'
"'Gettin' dark, Tom,' says Sam.
"'Ay,' says Tom; ''tis growin' wonderful cold an' dark out here. I knows it well. Put me ashore on the ice, lads,' says he.
"We landed Tom, then, on a near-by pan. He would have it so.
"'Leave me have my way!' says he. 'I've done a good stroke o' business.'
"Presently we took ol' Skinflint aboard in Tom's stead; an' jus' for a minute we hung off Tom's pan t' say good-bye.
"'I sends my love t' the wife an' the children,' says he. 'You'll not fail t' remember. She'll know why I done this thing. Tell her 'twas a grand chance an' I took it.'
"'Ay, Tom.'
"'Fetch in here close,' says Tom. 'I wants t' talk t' the ol' skinflint you got aboard there. I'll have my say, ecod, at last! Ye crab!' says he, shakin' his fist in Skinflint's face when the rodney got alongside. 'Ye robber! Ye pinch-a-penny! Ye liar! Ye thief! I done ye! Hear me? I done ye! I vowed I'd even scores with ye afore I died. An' I've done it – I've done it! What did ye buy? Twenty years o' my life! What will ye pay for? Twenty years o' my life!'
"An' Tom laughed. An' then he cut a caper, an' come close t' the edge o' the pan, an' shook his fist in Skinflint's face again.
"'Know what I found out from Doctor Luke?' says he. 'I seen Doctor Luke, ye crab! Know what he told me? No, ye don't! Twenty years o' my life this here ol' skinflint will pay for!' he crowed. 'Two thousand dollars he'll put in the hands o' my poor wife!'
"Well, well! The rodney was movin' away. An' a swirl o' snow shrouded poor Tom West. But we heard un laugh once more.
"'My heart has give 'way!' he yelled. 'I didn't have three months t' live! An' Doctor Luke tol' me so!'
"Well, now, sir," Skipper Joe concluded, "Skinflint done what he said he would do. He laid the money in the hands o' Tom West's wife last week. But a queer thing happened next day. Up went the price o' pork at Skinflint's shop! And up went the price o' tea an' molasses! An' up went the price o' flour!"
CHAPTER XXII
In Which Doctor Luke and Billy Topsail Go North, and at Candlestick Cove, Returning, Doctor Luke Finds Himself Just a Bit Peckish
A rumour came to Our Harbour, by the tongue of a fur-trader, who stopped over night at Doctor Luke's hospital, on his way to the South, that there was sickness in the North – some need or other; the fur-trader was not sure what. Winter still lingered. The mild spell, which had interrupted the journey of Billy Topsail and Teddy Brisk across Schooner Bay, had been a mere taste of spring. Hard weather had followed. Schooner Bay was once more jammed with ice, which had drifted back – jammed and frozen solid; and the way from Our Harbour to Tight Cove was secure. Teddy Brisk was ready to be moved; and this being so, and the lad being homesick for his mother, and the rumour of need in the North coming down – all this being so, Doctor Luke determined all at once to revisit the northern outports for the last time that winter.
"Are you ready for home, Teddy?" said he.
"I is that, sir!"
"Well," Doctor Luke concluded, "there is no reason why you should not be home. I'll harness the dogs to-morrow and take you across Schooner Bay on the komatik."
"Billy Topsail comin', sir?"
"What say, Billy?"
"May I go, sir?"
"You may."
"All the way, sir?"
"All the way!" cried Doctor Luke. "Why, boy, I'm going north to – "
"Please, sir!"
"Well, well! If you've the mind. Come along, boy. I'll be glad to have you."
Teddy Brisk was taken across Schooner Bay and restored to his mother's arms. And Doctor Luke and Billy Topsail drove the dogs north on Doctor Luke's successful round of visits.
It was on the return journey that Doctor Luke and Billy Topsail fell in with the Little Fiddler of Amen Island. At Candlestick Cove they were to feed the dogs and put up for the night. It was still treacherous March weather; and the night threatened foul – a flurry of snow falling and the sky overcast with a thickening drab scud. Day was done when Doctor Luke and Billy Topsail crawled out of the timber and scurried down Twist Hill. In the early dusk the lights were already twinkling yellow and warm in the cottages below; and from the crest of the long hill, in the last of the light, Amen Island was visible, an outlying shadow, across Ships' Run.
There were still sixty miles left of Doctor Luke's round – this second winter round from Our Harbour to the lonely huts of Laughter Bight, thirty miles north of Cape Blind, touching all the harbours between, and by way of Thunder Tickle and Candlestick Cove, which lay midway, back to the shaded lamp and radiant open fire of the little surgery at Our Harbour.
As the dogs scurried down Twist Hill, whimpering and snarling, eager to make an end of a hard day, Doctor Luke visioned those wintry miles and reflected upon the propriety of omitting a call at Amen Island.
Doctor Luke and Billy Topsail drew up at Mild Jim Cull's.
"Skipper James," said Doctor Luke, in the kitchen, across the lamp-lit, devastated supper table, an hour later, "what's the health of Amen Island?"
"They're all well, sir – so far as I knows."
"All well? Just my luck! Then I won't – "
"Amanda," Skipper James admonished his wife, in a grieved whisper, "the Doctor is wantin' another cup o' tea."
The good woman was astonished.
"He've had – " she began.
Then she blushed – and grasped the pot in a fluster – and —
"Thank you – no more," the Doctor protested.
"Ah, now, sir – "
"No more. Really, you know! I've quite finished. I – well – I – if you please, Mrs. Cull. Half a cup. No more. Thank you."
"An' Billy Topsail, too," said Skipper James.
Billy was abashed.
"No – really!" he began. "I – well – thank you – half a cup!"
"All fit an' well, sir, as I says," Skipper James repeated, relieved, now resuming his conversation with Doctor Luke – "so far as I knows."
"Anybody come across Ships' Run lately?"
"Well, no, sir – nobody but ol' Jack Hulk. Another slice o' pork, Doctor?"
The youngest little Cull tittered, astounded:
"He've had – "
Amanda covered the youngest little Cull's lips just in time with a soft hand.
"Thank you – no," the Doctor protested again. "I'm quite finished. Nothing more – really! Well," he yielded – "if you will – "
"You, too, Billy Topsail?" said Skipper James.
"Nothing more, really!" Billy replied, with a grin. And then: "Well – if you will – "
"No; nobody but ol' Jack Hulk," said Skipper James to Doctor Luke.
"Jack Hulk, you say? Hm-m. When was that?"
"I don't rightly remember, sir. 'Twas less than a fortnight ago. I'll lay t' that much."
"And all well over there?"
"No report o' sickness, sir. Have another cut o' bread, sir, while you're about it."
The Doctor lifted his hand.
"No – really," said he, positively. "No more. Well – I – if you please. Thank you. I seem to be just a bit peckish to-night."
"A cut o' bread, Billy?" said Skipper James.
Billy lifted his hand.
"Not a bite!" he protested. And he winked. "Ah, well," he yielded, "might as well, I 'low. Really, now, I is jus' a bit peckish the night."
"No; no report o' sickness on Amen," Skipper James repeated, resuming his conversation, as before.
"Quite sure about that?"
"Well, sir," Skipper James replied, his gray eyes twinkling, "I asked ol' Jack Hulk, an' he said, 'All well on Amen Island. The Lord's been wonderful easy on us this winter. I'd almost go so far as t' say,' says he, 'that He've been lax. We've had no visitation o' the Lord,' says he, 'since the fall o' the year. We don't deserve this mercy. I'm free t' say that. We isn't been livin' as we should. There's been more frivolity on Amen Island this winter than ever afore in my time. It haven't been noticed so far,' says he. 'That's plain enough. An' so as yet,' says he, 'we're all well on Amen Island.'"
The Doctor grinned.
"What's the ice on Ships' Run?" said he.
"'Tis tumbled, sir. The bread's at your elbow, sir."
"Thank you. Dogs?"
"No, sir. Ships' Run's jammed with floe ice. A man would have t' foot it across. You bound over, sir?"
Doctor Luke deliberated.
"I think not," said he, then. "No." This was positive. "If they're all as well as that on Amen Island I'll get away for Our Harbour at noon to-morrow. No; no more – really. I – well – I'm almost wolfish, I declare. Thank you – if you please – just a sma-a-all – "
Billy Topsail burst out laughing.
"What's this mirth?" cried the Doctor.
"Well, sir," Billy chuckled, "you is jus' a bit peckish the night, sir!"
There was a burst of laughter. At that moment, however, in a cottage on Amen Island, across Ships' Run, nobody was laughing – least of all the Little Fiddler of Amen Island.
CHAPTER XXIII
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."