“The man’s stark mad!” he would repeat, in his panic of gesture and pacing. “The man’s stark mad to risk this!”
My uncle softly closed the door behind him. “Ah, Dannie!” says he. “You here?” He was breathless, and gone a ghastly color; there was that about his scars and eyes, too, to make me wonder whether ’twas rage or fear had mastered him: I could not tell, but mightily wished to determine, since it seemed that some encounter impended. “Ye’re an unkind man,” says he, in a passionless way, to the gray stranger, who was now once more seated at his desk, fingering the litter of documents. “Ye’ve broke your word t’ me. I must punish ye for the evil ye’ve done this lad. I’ll not ask ye what ye’ve told un till I haves my way with ye; but then,” he declared, his voice betraying a tremor of indignation, “I’ll have the talk out o’ ye, word for word!” The gray stranger was agitated, but would not look up from his aimlessly wandering hand to meet my uncle’s lowering, reproachful eyes. “Dannie,” says my uncle, continuing in gentle speech, “pass the cushion from the big chair. Thank ’e, lad. I’m not wantin’ the man t’ hurt his head.” He cast the cushion to the floor. “Now, sir,” says he, gently, “an ye’ll be good enough t’ step within five-foot-ten o’ that there red cushion, I’ll knock ye down an’ have it over with.”
The man looked sullenly out of the window.
“Five-foot-ten, sir,” my uncle repeated, with some cheerfulness.
“Top,” was the vicious response, “you invite assassination.”
My uncle put his hand on my shoulder. “’Tis not fit for ye t’ see, lad,” says he. “Ye’d best be off t’ the fresh air. ’Tis so wonderful stuffy here that ye’ll be growin’ pale an ye don’t look out. An’ I’m not wantin’ ye t’ see me knock a man down,” he repeated, with feeling. “I’m not wantin’ ye even t’ think that I’d do an unkind thing like that.”
I moved to go.
“Now, sir!” cries my uncle to the stranger.
As I closed the door behind me the man was passing with snarling lips to the precise spot my uncle had indicated…
XX
NO APOLOGY
My uncle knocked on my door at the hotel and, without waiting to be bidden, thrust in his great, red, bristling, monstrously scarred head. ’Twas an intrusion most diffident and fearful: he was like a mischievous boy come for chastisement.
“You here, Dannie?” he gently inquired.
“Come in, sir,” says I.
’Twas awkwardly–with a bashful grin and halting, doubtful step–that he stumped in.
“Comfortable?” he asked, looking about. “No complaint t’ make ag’in this here hotel?”
I had no complaint.
“Not troubled, is you?”
I was not troubled.
“Isn’t bothered, is you?” he pursued, with an inviting wink. “Not bothered about nothin’, lad, is you?”
Nor bothered.
“Come now!” cries he, dissembling great candor and heartiness, “is you got any questions t’ ask ol’ Nick Top?”
“No, sir,” I answered, quite confidently.
“Dannie, lad,” says my uncle, unable to contain his delight, with which, indeed, his little eyes brimmed over, “an ye’d jus’ be so damned good as t’ tweak that there–”
I pulled the bell-cord.
“A nip o’ the best Jamaica,” says he.
Old Elihu Wall fetched the red dram.
“Lad,” says my uncle, his glass aloft, his eyes resting upon me in pride, his voice athrill with passionate conviction, “here’s t’ you! That’s good o’ you,” says he. “That’s very good. I ’low I’ve fetched ye up very well. Ecod!” he swore, with most reverent and gentle intention, “ye’ll be a gentleman afore ye knows it!”
He downed the liquor with a grin that came over his lurid countenance like a burst of low sunshine.
“A gentleman,” he repeated, “in spite o’ Chesterfield!”
When my uncle was gone, I commanded my reflections elsewhere, prohibited by honor from dwelling upon the wretched mystery in which I was enmeshed. They ran with me to the fool of Twist Tickle. The weather had turned foul: ’twas blowing up from the north in a way to make housed folk shiver for their fellows at sea. Evil sailing on the Labrador! I wondered how the gentle weakling fared as cook of the Quick as Wink. I wondered in what harbor he lay, in the blustering night, or off what coast he tossed. I wondered what trouble he had within his heart. I wished him home again: but yet remembered, with some rising of hope, that his amazing legacy of wisdom had in all things been sufficient to his need. Had he not in peace and usefulness walked the paths of the world where wiser folk had gone with bleeding feet? ’Twas dwelling gratefully upon this miracle of wisdom and love, a fool’s inheritance, that I, who had no riches of that kind, fell asleep, without envy or perturbation, that night.
’Twas not long I had to wait to discover the fortune of the fool upon that voyage. We were not three days returned from the city when the Quick as Wink slipped into our harbor. She had been beating up all afternoon; ’twas late of a dark night when she dropped anchor. John Cather was turned in, Judith long ago whisked off to bed by our maid-servant; my uncle and I sat alone together when the rattle of the chain apprised us that the schooner was in the shelter of the Lost Soul.
By-and-by Moses came.
“You’ve been long on the road,” says I.
“Well, Dannie,” he explained, looking at his cap, which he was awkwardly twirling, “I sort o’ fell in with Parson Stump by the way, an’ stopped for a bit of a gossip.”
I begged him to sit with us.
“No,” says he; “but I’m ’bliged t’ you. Fac’ is, Dannie,” says he, gravely, “I isn’t got time.”
My uncle was amazed.
“I’ve quit the ship,” Moses went on, “not bein’ much of a hand at cookin’. I’ll be t’ home now,” says he, “an’ I’d be glad t’ have you an’ Skipper Nicholas drop in, some day soon, when you’re passin’ Whisper Cove.”
We watched him twirl his cap.
“You’d find a wonderful warm welcome,” says he, “from Mrs. Moses Shoos!”
With that he was gone.
XXI
FOOL’S FORTUNE
“Close the door, Dannie,” says Tumm, in the little cabin of the Quick as Wink, late that night, when the goods were put to rights, and the bottle was on the counter, and the schooner was nodding sleepily in the spent waves from the open sea. “This here yarn o’ the weddin’ o’ Moses Shoos is not good for everybody t’ hear.” He filled the glasses–chuckling all the time deep in his chest. “We was reachin’ up t’ Whoopin’ Harbor,” he began, being a great hand at a story, “t’ give the Quick as Wink a night’s lodgin’, it bein’ a wonderful windish night; clear enough, the moon sailin’ a cloudy sky, but with a bank o’ fog sneakin’ round Cape Muggy like a fish-thief. An’ we wasn’t in no haste, anyhow, t’ make Sinners’ Tickle, for we was the first trader down this season, an’ ’twas pick an’ choose for we, with a clean bill t’ every harbor from Starvation Cove t’ the Settin’ Hen. So the skipper he says we’ll hang the ol’ girl up t’ Whoopin’ Harbor ’til dawn; an’ we’ll all have a watch below, says he, with a cup o’ tea, says he, if the cook can bile the water ’ithout burnin’ it. Now, look you! Saucy Bill North is wonderful fond of his little joke; an’ ’twas this here habit o’ burnin’ the water he’d pitched on t’ plague the poor cook with, since we put out o’ Twist Tickle on the v’y’ge down.
“‘Cook, you dunderhead!’ says the skipper, with a wink t’ the crew, which I was sorry t’ see, ‘you been an’ scarched the water agin.’
“Shoos he looked like he’d give up for good on the spot–just like he knowed he was a fool, an’ had knowed it for a long, long time–sort o’ like he was sorry for we an’ sick of hisself.
“‘Cook,’ says the skipper, ‘you went an’ done it agin. Yes, you did! Don’t you go denyin’ of it. You’ll kill us, cook,’ says he, ‘if you goes on like this. They isn’t nothin’ worse for the system,’ says he, ‘than this here burned water. The almanacs,’ says he, shakin’ his finger at the poor cook, ‘’ll tell you that!’
“‘I ’low I did burn that water, skipper,’ says the cook, ‘if you says so. But I isn’t got all my wits,’ says he; ’an’ God knows I’m doin’ my best!’
“‘I always did allow, cook,’ says the skipper, ‘that God knowed more’n I ever thunk.’
“‘An’ I never did burn no water,’ says the cook, ‘afore I shipped along o’ you in this here ol’ flour-sieve of a Quick as Wink.’
“‘This here what?’ snaps the skipper.
“‘This here ol’ basket,’ says the cook.
“‘Basket!’ says the skipper. Then he hummed a bit o’ ‘Fishin’ for the Maid I Loves,’ ’ithout thinkin’ much about the toon. ‘Cook,’ says he ‘I loves you. You is on’y a half-witted chance-child,’ says he, ‘but I loves you like a brother.’
“‘Does you, skipper?’ says the cook, with a nice, soft little smile, like the poor fool he was. ‘I isn’t by no means hatin’ you, skipper,’ says he. ‘But I can’t help burnin’ the water,’ says he, ‘an’ I ’low it fair hurts me t’ get blame for it. I’m sorry for you an’ the crew,’ says he, ‘an’ I wisht I hadn’t took the berth. But when I shipped along o’ you,’ says he, ‘I ’lowed I could cook, for mother always told me so, an’ I ’lowed she knowed. I’m doin’ my best, anyhow, accordin’ t’ how she’d have me do, an’ I ’low if the water gets scarched,’ says he, ‘the galley fire’s bewitched.’
“‘Basket!’ says the skipper. ‘Ay, ay, cook,’ says he. ‘I just loves you.’
“They wasn’t a man o’ the crew liked t’ hear the skipper say that; for, look you! the skipper doesn’t know nothin’ about feelin’s, an’ the cook has more feelin’s ’n a fool can make handy use of aboard a tradin’ craft. There sits the ol’ man, smoothin’ his big, red beard, singin’ ‘I’m Fishin’ for the Maid I Loves,’ while he looks at poor Moses Shoos, which was washin’ up the dishes, for we was through with the mug-up. An’ the devil was in his eyes–the devil was fair grinnin’ in them little blue eyes. Lord! it made me sad t’ see it, for I knowed the cook was in for bad weather, an’ he isn’t no sort o’ craft t’ be out o’ harbor in a gale o’ wind like that.
“‘Cook,’ says the skipper.
“‘Ay, sir?’ says the cook.
“‘Cook,’ says the skipper, ‘you ought t’ get married.’
“‘I on’y wisht I could,’ says the cook.
“‘You ought t’ try, cook,’ says the skipper, ‘for the sake o’ the crew. We’ll all die,’ says he, ‘afore we sights ol’ Bully Dick agin,’ says he, ‘if you keeps on burnin’ the water. You got t’ get married, cook, t’ the first likely maid you sees on the Labrador,’ says he, ‘t’ save the crew. She’d do the cookin’ for you. It’ll be the loss o’ all hands,’ says he, ‘an you don’t. This here burned water,’ says he, ‘will be the end of us, cook, an you keeps it up.’
“‘I’d be wonderful glad t’ ’blige you, skipper,’ says the cook, ‘an’ I’d like t’ ’blige all hands. ’Twon’t be by my wish,’ says he, ‘that anybody’ll die o’ the grub they gets, for mother wouldn’t like it.’
“‘Cook,’ says the skipper, ‘shake! I knows a man,’ says he, ‘when I sees one. Any man,’ says he, ‘that would put on the irons o’ matrimony,’ says he, ‘t’ ’blige a shipmate,’ says he, ‘is a better man ’n me, an’ I loves un like a brother.’
“The cook was cheered up considerable.
“‘Cook,’ says the skipper, ‘I ’pologize. Yes, I do, cook,’ says he, ‘I ’pologize.’
“‘I isn’t got no feelin’ ag’in’ matrimony,’ says the cook. ‘But I isn’t able t’ get took. I been tryin’ every maid t’ Twist Tickle,’ says he, ‘an’ they isn’t one,’ says he, ‘will wed a fool.’
“‘Not one maid t’ wed a fool!’ says the skipper.
“‘Nar a one,’ says the cook.
“‘I’m s’prised,’ says the skipper.
“‘Nar a maid t’ Twist Tickle,’ says the cook, ‘will wed a fool, an’ I ’low they isn’t one,’ says he, ‘on the Labrador.’
“‘It’s been done afore, cook,’ says the skipper, ‘an’ I ’low ’twill be done agin, if the world don’t come to an end t’ oncet. Cook,’ says he, ‘I knows the maid t’ do it.’
“‘I’d be wonderful glad t’ find she,’ says the cook. ‘Mother,’ says he, ‘always ’lowed a man didn’t ought t’ live alone.’
“‘Ay, b’y,’ says the skipper, ‘I got the girl for you. An’ she isn’t a thousand miles,’ says he, ‘from where that ol’ basket of a Quick as Wink lies at anchor,’ says he, ‘in Whoopin’ Harbor. She isn’t what you’d call handsome an’ tell no lie,’ says he, ‘but–’
“‘Never you mind about that, skipper,’ says the cook.
“‘No,’ says the skipper, ‘she isn’t handsome, as handsome goes, even in these parts, but–’
“‘Never you mind, skipper,’ says the cook: ‘for mother always ’lowed that looks come off in the first washin’.’
“‘I ’low that Liz Jones would take you, cook,’ says the skipper. ‘You ain’t much on wits, but you got a good-lookin’ figure-head; an’ I ’low she’d be more’n willin’ t’ skipper a craft like you. You better go ashore, cook, when you gets cleaned up, an’ see what she says. Tumm,’ says he, ‘is sort o’ shipmates with Liz,’ says he, ‘an’ I ’low he’ll see you through the worst of it.’
“‘Will you, Tumm?’ says the cook.
“‘Well,’ says I, ‘I’ll see.’
“I knowed Liz Jones from the time I fished Whoopin’ Harbor with Skipper Bill Topsail in the Love the Wind, bein’ cotched by the measles thereabouts, which she nursed me through; an’ I ’lowed she would wed the cook if he asked her, so, thinks I, I’ll go ashore with the fool t’ see that she don’t. No; she isn’t handsome–not Liz. I’m wonderful fond o’ yarnin’ o’ good-lookin’ maids, as you knows, Skipper Nicholas, sir; but I can’t say much o’ Liz: for Liz is so far t’ l’eward o’ beauty that many a time, lyin’ sick there in the fo’c’s’le o’ the Love the Wind, I wished the poor girl would turn inside out, for, thinks I, the pattern might be a sight better on the other side. I will say she is big and well-muscled; an’ muscles, t’ my mind, counts enough t’ make up for black eyes, but not for cross-eyes, much less for fuzzy whiskers. It ain’t in my heart t’ make sport o’ Liz; but I will say she has a bad foot, for she was born in a gale, I’m told, when the Preacher was hangin’ on off a lee shore ’long about Cape Harrigan, an’ the sea was raisin’ the devil. An’, well–I hates t’ say it, but–well, they call her ‘Walrus Liz.’ No; she isn’t handsome, she haven’t got no good looks; but once you gets a look into whichever one o’ them cross-eyes you is able to cotch, you see a deal more’n your own face; an’ she is well-muscled, an’ I ’low I’m goin’ t’ tell you so, for I wants t’ name her good p’ints so well as her bad. Whatever–
“‘Cook,’ says I, ‘I’ll go along o’ you.’
“With that Moses Shoos fell to on the dishes, an’ ’twasn’t long afore he was ready to clean hisself; which done, he was ready for the courtin’. But first he got out his dunny-bag, an’ he fished in there ’til he pulled out a blue stockin’, tied in a hard knot; an’ from the toe o’ that there blue stockin’ he took a brass ring. ‘I ’low,’ says he, talkin’ to hisself, in the half-witted way he has, ‘it won’t do no hurt t’ give her mother’s ring. “Moses,” says mother, “you better take the ring off my finger. It isn’t no weddin’-ring,” says she, “for I never was what you might call wed by a real parson in the fashionable way, but on’y accordin’ t’ the customs o’ the land,” says she, “an’ I got it from the Jew t’ make believe I was wed in the way they does it in these days; for it didn’t do nobody no hurt, an’ it sort o’ pleased me. You better take it, Moses, b’y,” says she, “for the dirt o’ the grave would only spile it,” says she, “an’ I’m not wantin’ it no more. Don’t wear it at the fishin’, dear,” says she, “for the fishin’ is wonderful hard,” says she, “an’ joolery don’t stand much wear an’ tear.” ‘Oh, mother!’ says the cook, ‘I done what you wanted!’ Then the poor fool sighed an’ looked up at the skipper. ‘I ’low, skipper,’ says he, ‘’twouldn’t do no hurt t’ give the ring to a man’s wife, would it? For mother wouldn’t mind, would she?’
“The skipper didn’t answer that.
“‘Come, cook,’ says I, ‘leave us get under way,’ for I couldn’t stand it no longer.
“So the cook an’ me put out in the punt t’ land at Whoopin’ Harbor, with the crew wishin’ the poor cook well with their lips, but thinkin’, God knows what! in their hearts. An’ he was in a wonderful state o’ fright. I never seed a man so took by scare afore. For, look you! poor Moses thinks she might have un. ‘I never had half a chance afore,’ says he. ‘They’ve all declined in a wonderful regular way. But now,’ says he, ‘I ’low I’ll be took. I jus’ feels that way; an’, Tumm, I–I–I’m scared!’ I cheered un up so well as I could; an’ by-an’-by we was on the path t’ Liz Jones’s house, up on Gray Hill, where she lived alone, her mother bein’ dead an’ her father shipped on a bark from St. John’s t’ the West Indies. An’ we found Liz sittin’ on a rock at the turn o’ the road, lookin’ down from the hill at the Quick as Wink; all alone–sittin’ there in the moonlight, all alone–thinkin’ o’ God knows what!
“‘Hello, Liz!’ says I.
“‘Hello, Tumm!’ says she. ‘What vethel’th that?’
“‘That’s the Quick as Wink, Liz,’ says I. ‘An’ here’s the cook o’ that there craft,’ says I, ‘come up the hill t’ speak t’ you.’
“‘That’s right,’ says the cook. ‘Tumm, you’re right.’
“‘T’ thpeak t’ me!’ says she.
“I wisht she hadn’t spoke quite that way. Lord! it wasn’t nice. It makes a man feel bad t’ see a woman put her hand on her heart for a little thing like that.
“‘Ay, Liz,’ says I, ‘t’ speak t’ you. An’ I’m thinkin’, Liz,’ says I, ‘he’ll say things no man ever said afore–t’ you.’
“‘That’s right, Tumm,’ says the cook. ‘I wants t’ speak as man t’ man,’ says he, ‘t’ stand by what I says,’ says he, ‘accordin’ as mother would have me do!’
“Liz got off the rock. Then she begun t’ kick at the path; an’ she was lookin’ down, but I ’lowed she had an eye on Moses all the time. ‘For,’ thinks I, ‘she’s sensed the thing out, like all the women.’
“‘I’m thinkin’,’ says I, ‘I’ll go up the road a bit.’
“‘Oh no, you won’t, Tumm,’ says she. ‘You thtay right here. Whath the cook wantin’ o’ me?’
“‘Well,’ says the cook, ‘I ’low I wants t’ get married.’
“‘T’ get married!’ says she.
“‘T’ get married,’ says the cook, ‘accordin’ as mother would have me; an’ I ’low you’ll do.’
“‘Me?’ says she.
“‘Liz,’ says he, as solemn as church, ‘I means you.’
“It come to her all of a suddent–an’ she begun t’ breathe hard, an’ pressed her hands against her breast an’ shivered. But she looked away t’ the moon, an’ somehow that righted her.
“‘You better thee me in daylight,’ says she.
“‘Don’t you mind about that,’ says he. ‘Mother always ’lowed that sort o’ thing didn’t matter: an’ she knowed.’
“She put a finger under his chin an’ tipped his face t’ the light.
“‘You ithn’t got all your thentheth, ith you?’ says she.
“‘Well,’ says he, ‘bein’ born on Hollow-eve,’ says he, ‘I isn’t quite got all my wits. But,’ says he, ‘I wisht I had. An’ I can’t do no more.’
“‘An’ you wanth t’ wed me?’ says she. ‘Ith you sure you doth?’
“‘I got mother’s ring,’ says the cook, ‘t’ prove it.’
“‘Tumm,’ says Liz t’ me, ‘you ithn’t wantin’ t’ get married, ith you?’
“‘No, Liz,’ says I. ‘Not,’ says I, ‘t’ you.’
“‘No,’ says she. ‘Not–t’ me.’ She took me round the turn in the road. ‘Tumm,’ says she, ‘I ’low I’ll wed that man. I wanth t’ get away from here,’ says she, lookin’ over the hills. ‘I wanth t’ get t’ the thouthern outporth, where there’th life. They ithn’t no life here. An’ I’m tho wonderful tired o’ all thith! Tumm,’ says she, ‘no man ever afore athked me t’ marry un, an’ I ’low I better take thith one. He’th on’y a fool,’ says she, ‘but not even a fool ever come courtin’ me, an’ I ’low nobody but a fool would. On’y a fool, Tumm!’ says she. ‘But I ithn’t got nothin’ t’ boatht of. God made me,’ says she, ‘an’ I ithn’t mad that He done it. I ’low He meant me t’ take the firth man that come, an’ be content. I ’low I ithn’t got no right t’ thtick up my nothe at a fool. For, Tumm,’ says she, ‘God made that fool, too. An’, Tumm,’ says she, ‘I wanth thomethin’ elthe. Oh, I wanth thomethin’ elthe! I hateth t’ tell you, Tumm,’ says she, ‘what it ith. But all the other maidth hath un, Tumm, an’ I wanth one, too. I ’low they ithn’t no woman happy without one, Tumm. An’ I ithn’t never had no chanth afore. No chanth, Tumm, though God knowth they ithn’t nothin’ I wouldn’t do,’ says she, ‘t’ get what I wanth! I’ll wed the fool,’ says she. ‘It ithn’t a man I wanth tho much; no, it ithn’t a man. Ith–’
“‘What you wantin’, Liz?’ says I.
“‘It ithn’t a man, Tumm,’ says she.
“‘No?’ says I. ‘What is it, Liz?’
“‘Ith a baby,’ says she.
“God! I felt bad when she told me that…”
Tumm stopped, sighed, picked at a knot in the table. There was silence in the cabin. The Quick as Wink was still nodding to the swell–lying safe at anchor in a cove of Twist Tickle. We heard the gusts scamper over the deck and shake the rigging; we caught, in the intervals, the deep-throated roar of breakers, far off–all the noises of the gale. And Tumm picked at the knot with his clasp-knife; and we sat watching, silent, all. And I felt bad, too, because of the maid at Whooping Harbor–a rolling waste of rock, with the moonlight lying on it, stretching from the whispering mystery of the sea to the greater desolation beyond; and an uncomely maid, alone and wistful, wishing, without hope, for that which the hearts of women must ever desire…
“Ay,” Tumm drawled, “it made me feel bad t’ think o’ what she’d been wantin’ all them years; an’ then I wished I’d been kinder t’ Liz… An’, ‘Tumm,’ thinks I, ‘you went an’ come ashore t’ stop this here thing; but you better let the skipper have his little joke, for ’twill on’y s’prise him, an’ it won’t do nobody else no hurt. Here’s this fool,’ thinks I, ‘wantin’ a wife; an’ he won’t never have another chance. An’ here’s this maid,’ thinks I, ‘wantin’ a baby; an’ she won’t never have another chance. ’Tis plain t’ see,’ thinks I, ‘that God A’mighty, who made un, crossed their courses; an’ I ’low, ecod!’ thinks I, ‘that ’twasn’t a bad idea He had. If He’s got to get out of it somehow,’ thinks I, ‘why, I don’t know no better way. Tumm,’ thinks I, ‘you sheer off. Let Nature,’ thinks I, ‘have course an’ be glorified.’ So I looks Liz in the eye–an’ says nothin’.
“‘Tumm,’ says she, ‘doth you think he–’
“‘Don’t you be scared o’ nothin’,’ says I. ‘He’s a lad o’ good feelin’s,’ says I, ‘an’ he’ll treat you the best he knows how. Is you goin’ t’ take un?’
“‘I wathn’t thinkin’ o’ that,’ says she. ‘I wathn’t thinkin’ o’ not. I wath jutht,’ says she, ‘wonderin’.’
“‘They isn’t no sense in that, Liz,’ says I. ‘You just wait an’ find out.’
“‘What’th hith name?’ says she.
“‘Shoos,’ says I. ‘Moses Shoos.’
“With that she up with her pinny an’ begun t’ cry like a young swile.
“‘What you cryin’ for, Liz?’ says I.
“I ’low I couldn’t tell what ’twas all about. But she was like all the women. Lord! ’tis the little things that makes un weep when it comes t’ the weddin’.
“‘Come, Liz,’ says I, ‘what you cryin’ about?’
“‘I lithp,’ says she.
“‘I knows you does, Liz,’ says I; ‘but it ain’t nothin’ t’ cry about.’
“‘I can’t say Joneth,’ says she.
“‘No,’ says I; ‘but you’ll be changin’ your name,’ says I, ‘an’ it won’t matter no more.’
“‘An’ if I can’t say Joneth,’ says she, ‘I can’t thay–’
“‘Can’t say what?’ says I.
“‘Can’t thay Thooth!’ says she.
“Lord! No more she could. An’ t’ say Moses Shoos! An’ t’ say Mrs. Moses Shoos! Lord! It give me a pain in the tongue t’ think of it.
“‘Jutht my luck,’ says she; ‘but I’ll do my betht.’
“So we went back an’ told poor Moses Shoos that he didn’t have t’ worry no more about gettin’ a wife; an’ he said he was more glad than sorry, an’, says he, she’d better get her bonnet, t’ go aboard an’ get married right away. An’ she ’lowed she didn’t want no bonnet, but would like to change her pinny. So we said we’d as lief wait a spell, though a clean pinny wasn’t needed. An’ when she got back, the cook said he ’lowed the skipper could marry un well enough ’til we overhauled a real parson; an’ she thought so, too, for, says she, ’twouldn’t be longer than a fortnight, an’ any sort of a weddin’, says she, would do ’til then. An’ aboard we went, the cook an’ me pullin’ the punt, an’ she steerin’; an’ the cook he crowed an’ cackled all the way, like a half-witted rooster; but the maid didn’t even cluck, for she was too wonderful solemn t’ do anything but look at the moon.
“‘Skipper,’ said the cook, when we got in the fo’c’s’le, ‘here she is. I isn’t afeared,’ says he, ‘an’ she isn’t afeared; an’ now I ’lows we’ll have you marry us.’
“Up jumps the skipper; but he was too much s’prised t’ say a word.
“‘An’ I’m thinkin’,’ says the cook, with a nasty little wink, such as never I seed afore get into the eyes o’ Moses Shoos, ‘that they isn’t a man in this here fo’c’s’le,’ says he, ‘will say I’m afeared.’
“‘Cook,’ says the skipper, takin’ the cook’s hand, ‘shake! I never knowed a man like you afore,’ says he. ‘T’ my knowledge, you’re the on’y man in the Labrador fleet would do it. I’m proud,’ says he, ‘t’ take the hand o’ the man with nerve enough t’ marry Walrus Liz o’ Whoopin’ Harbor.’
“But ’twas a new Moses he had t’ deal with. The devil got in the fool’s eyes–a jumpin’ little brimstone devil, ecod! I never knowed the man could look that way.
“‘Ay, lad,’ says the skipper, ‘I’m proud t’ know the man that isn’t afeared o’ Walrus–’
“‘Don’t you call her that!’ says the cook. ‘Don’t you do it, skipper!’
“I was lookin’ at Liz. She was grinnin’ in a holy sort o’ way. Never seed nothin’ like that afore–no, lads, not in all my life.
“‘An’ why not, cook?’ says the skipper.
“‘It ain’t her name,’ says the cook.
“‘It ain’t?’ says the skipper. ‘But I been sailin’ the Labrador for twenty year,’ says he, ‘an’ I ’ain’t never heared her called nothin’ but Walrus–’
“‘Don’t you do it, skipper!’
“The devil got into the cook’s hands then. I seed his fingers clawin’ the air in a hungry sort o’ way. An’ it looked t’ me like squally weather for the skipper.
“‘Don’t you do it no more, skipper,’ says the cook. ‘I isn’t got no wits,’ says he, an’ I’m feelin’ wonderful queer!’
“The skipper took a look ahead into the cook’s eyes. ‘Well, cook,’ says he, ‘I ’low,’ says he, ‘I won’t.’
“Liz laughed–an’ got close t’ the fool from Twist Tickle. An’ I seed her touch his coat-tail, like as if she loved it, but didn’t dast do no more.
“‘What you two goin’ t’ do?’ says the skipper.
“‘We ’lowed you’d marry us,’ says the cook, ‘’til we come across a parson.’
“‘I will,’ says the skipper. ‘Stand up here,’ says he. ‘All hands stand up!’ says he. ‘Tumm,’ says he, ‘get me the first Book you comes across.’
“I got un a Book.
“‘Now, Liz,’ says he, ‘can you cook?’
“‘Fair t’ middlin’,’ says she. ‘I won’t lie.’
“’Twill do,’ says he. ‘An’ does you want t’ get married t’ this here dam’ fool?’
“‘An it pleathe you,’ says she.
“‘Shoos,’ says the skipper, ‘will you let this woman do the cookin’?’
“‘Well, skipper,’ says the cook, ‘I will; for I don’t want nobody t’ die o’ my cookin’ on this here v’y’ge, an’ I knows that mother wouldn’t mind.’
“‘An’ will you keep out o’ the galley?’
“‘I ’low I’ll have to.’
“‘An’ look you! cook, is you sure–is you sure,’ says the skipper, with a shudder, lookin’ at the roof, ‘that you wants t’ marry this here–’
“‘Don’t you do it, skipper!’ says the cook. ‘Don’t you say that no more! By the Lord!’ says he, ‘I’ll kill you if you does!’
“‘Is you sure,’ says the skipper, ‘that you wants t’ marry this here–woman?’
“‘I will.’
“‘Well,’ says the skipper, kissin’ the Book, ‘I ’low me an’ the crew don’t care; an’ we can’t help it, anyhow.’
“‘What about mother’s ring?’ says the cook. ‘She might’s well have that,’ says he, ‘if she’s careful about the wear an’ tear. For joolery,’ says he t’ Liz, ‘don’t stand it.’
“‘It can’t do no harm,’ says the skipper.
“‘Ith we married, thkipper?’ says Liz, when she got the ring on.
“‘Well,’ says the skipper, ‘I ’low that knot’ll hold ’til we puts into Twist Tickle, where Parson Stump can mend it, right under my eye. For,’ says he, ‘I got a rope’s-end an’ a belayin’-pin t’ make it hold,’ says he, ‘’til we gets ’longside o’ some parson that knows more about matrimonial knots ’n me. We’ll pick up your goods, Liz,’ says he, ‘on the s’uthard v’y’ge. An’ I hopes, ol’ girl,’ says he, ‘that you’ll be able t’ boil the water ’ithout burnin’ it.’
“‘Ay, Liz,’ says the cook, ‘I been makin’ a awful fist o’ b’ilin’ the water o’ late.’
“She give him one look–an’ put her clean pinny to her eyes.
“‘What you cryin’ about?’ says the cook.
“‘I don’t know,’ says she; ‘but I ’low ’tith becauthe now I knowth you ith a fool!’
“‘She’s right, Tumm,’ says the cook. ‘She’s got it right! Bein’ born on Hollow-eve,’ says he, ‘I couldn’t be nothin’ else. But, Liz,’ says he, ‘I’m glad I got you, fool or no fool.’
“So she wiped her eyes, an’ blowed her nose, an’ give a little sniff, an’ looked up an’ smiled.
“‘I isn’t good enough for you,’ says the poor cook. ‘But, Liz,’ says he, ‘if you kissed me,’ says he, ‘I wouldn’t mind a bit. An’ they isn’t a man in this here fo’c’s’le,’ says he, lookin’ round, ‘that’ll say I’d mind. Not one,’ says he, with the little devil jumpin’ in his eyes.
“Then she stopped cryin’ for good.
“‘Go ahead, Liz!’ says he. ‘I ain’t afeared. Come on!’ says he. ‘Give us a kiss!’
“‘Motheth Thooth,’ says she, ‘you’re the firtht man ever athked me t’ give un a kith!’
“She kissed un. ’Twas like a pistol-shot. An’, Lord! her poor face was shinin’…”
In the cabin of the Quick as Wink we listened to the wind as it scampered over the deck; and my uncle and I watched Tumm pick at the knot in the table.
“He don’t need no sense,” said Tumm, looking up, at last; “for he’ve had a mother, an’ he’ve got a memory.”
’Twas very true, I thought.