Every Man for Himself

“‘No trouble?’ says she.

“‘Why, no,’ says he; ‘no trouble t’ speak of. I jus’ sort o’ poked around an’ picked it up.’

“About a week after ’Lizabeth All had first wore that pink feather t’ meetin’ a constable come ashore from the mail-boat an’ tapped Slow Jim Tool on the shoulder.

“‘What you do that for?’ says Jim.

“‘In the Queen’s name!’ says the constable.

“‘My God!’ says Jim. ‘What is I been doin’?’

“‘Counterfeitin’,’ says the constable.

“‘Counter-fittin’!’ says Jim. ‘What’s that?’

“They says,” Tumm sighed, “that poor Jim Tool was wonderful s’prised t’ be give two year in chokee t’ St. John’s for passin’ lead shillin’s; for look you! Jim didn’t know they was lead.”

“And Elizabeth?” I ventured.

“Up an’ died,” he drawled…

“Well, now,” Tumm proceeded, “’twas three year later that Jim Tool an’ Archibald Shott an’ me was shipped from Twillingate aboard the Billy Boy t’ fish the Labrador below Mugford along o’ Skipper Alex Tuttle. Jim Tool was more slow an’ solemn an’ puzzled ’n ever I knowed un t’ be afore; an’ he was so wonderful shy o’ Archibald Shott that Arch ’lowed he’d have the superstitious shudders if it kep’ up much longer. ‘If he’d only talk,’ says Arch, ‘an’ not creep about this here schooner like a deaf an’ dumb ghost!’ But Jim said nar a word; he just’ kep’ a gray eye on Arch till Arch lost a deal more sleep ’n he got. ‘He irks me!’ says Arch. ‘’Tisn’t a thing a religious man would practise; an’ I’ll do something,’ says he, ‘t’ stop it!’ Howbeit, things was easy till the Billy Boy slipped past Mother Burke in fair weather an’ run into a dirty gale from the north off the upper French shore. The wind jus’ seemed t’ sweep up all the ice they was on the Labrador an’ jam it again’ the coast at Black Bight. There’s where we was, sir, when things cleaned up; gripped in the ice a hundred fathom off the Black Bight cliffs. An’ there we stayed, lifted from the pack, lyin’ at fearsome list, till the wind turned westerly an’ began t’ loosen up the ice.

“’Twas after noon of a gray day when the Billy Boy dropped back in the water. They was a bank o’ blue-black cloud hangin’ high beyond the cliffs; an’ I ’lowed t’ the skipper, when I seed it, that ’twould blow with snow afore the day was out.

“‘Ay,’ says the skipper; ‘an’ ’twon’t be long about it.’

“Jus’ then Slow Jim Tool knocked Archibald Shott flat on his back. Lord, what a thump! Looked t’ me as if Archibald Shott might be damaged.

“‘Ecod! Jim,’ says I, ‘what you go an’ do that for?’

“‘Why,’ says Jim, ‘he said a bad word again’ the name o’ ’Lizabeth.’

“‘Never done nothin’ o’ the kind,’ says Arch. ‘I was jus’ ’bidin’ here amidships lookin’ at the weather.’

“‘Yes, you did, Arch,’ says Jim; ‘you done it in the forecastle – las’ Wednesday. I heared you as I come down the ladder.’

“‘Don’t you knock me down again,’ says Arch. ‘That hurt!’

“‘Well,’ says Jim, ‘you keep your tongue off poor ’Lizabeth.’

“By this time, sir, the lads was all come up from the forecastle. We wasn’t much hands at fightin’, in them days, on the Labrador craft, bein’ all friends t’gether; an’ a little turn up on deck sort o’ scared the crew. Made un shy, too; they hanged about, backin’ an’ shufflin’, like kids in a parlor, fair itchin’ along o’ awkwardness, grinnin’ a deal wider’n was called for, but sayin’ nothin’ for fear o’ drawin’ more attention ’n they could well dodge. Skipper Alex he laughed; then I cackled a bit – an’ then off went the crew in a big he-haw. I seed Archibald Shott turn white an’ twitch-lipped, an’ I minds me now, sir, that he fidgeted somewhat about his hip; but bein’ all friends aboard, sir, shipped from near-by harbors, why, it jus’ didn’t jump into my mind that he was up t’ anything more deadly than givin’ a hitch to his trousers. How should it? We wasn’t used t’ brawls aboard the Billy Boy. But whatever, Archibald Shott crep’ for’ard a bit, till he was close ’longside, an’ then bended down t’ do up the lashin’ of his shoe: which he kep’ at, sir, fumblin’ like a baby, till Jim looked off t’ the clouds risin’ over the Black Bight cliffs an’ ’lowed ’twould snow like wool afore the hour was over. Then, ‘Will she?’ says Arch; an’ with that he drawed his splittin’-knife an’ leaped like a lynx on Slow Jim Tool. I seed the knife in the air, sir – seed un come down point foremost on Jim’s big chest – an’ heared a frosty tinkle when the broken blade struck the deck. It didn’t seem natural, sir; not on the deck o’ the Billy Boy, where we was all friends aboard, raised in near-by harbors.

“Anyhow, Slow Jim squealed like a pig an’ clapped a hand to his heart; an’ Arch jumped back t’ the rail, where he stood with muscles drawed an’ arms open for a grapple, fair drillin’ holes in Jim with his little green eyes.

“‘Ouch!’ says Jim; ‘that wasn’t fair, Arch!’

“Arch’s lips jus’ lifted away from his teeth in a ghastly sort o’ grin.

“‘Eh?’ says Jim. ‘What you want t’ do a dirty trick like that for?’

“Arch didn’t seem t’ have no answer ready: jus’ stood there eyin’ Jim, stock still as a wooden figger-head, ’cept that he shivered an’ gulped an’ licked his blue lips with a tongue that I ’lowed t’ be as dry as sand-paper. Seemed t’ me, sir, when his muscles begun t’ slack an’ his eyes t’ shift, that he was more scared ’n any decent man ought ever t’ get. But he didn’t say nothin’; nor no more did nobody else. Wasn’t nothin’ t’ say. There we was, all friends aboard, reared in near-by harbors. Didn’t seem natural t’ be stewin’ in a mess o’ hate like that. Look you! we knowed Archibald Shott an’ Slow Jim Tool: knowed un, stripped an’ clothed, body an’ soul, an’ had, sir, since they begun t’ toddle the roads o’ Jump Harbor. Knowed un? Why, down along afore the Lads’ Hope went ashore on the Barnyard Islands, I slep’ along o’ Jim Tool an’ poulticed Archibald Shaft’s boils! Didn’t seem t’ me, sir, when Jim took off his jacket an’ opened his shirt that they was anything more’n sorrow for Arch’s temper brewin’ in his heart. Murder? Never thunk o’ murder; wasn’t used enough t’ murder. I ’lowed, though, that Jim didn’t like the sight o’ the cut where the knife had broke on a rib; an’ I ’lowed he liked the feel of his blood still less, for he got white an’ stupid an’ disgusted when his fingers touched it, jus’ as if he might be sea-sick any minute, an’ he shook hisself an’ coughed, sir, jus’ like a dog eatin’ grass.

“‘Tumm,’ says he, ‘you got a knife?’

“‘Don’t ’low no one,’ says I, ‘t’ clean a pipe ’ith my knife.’

“‘No,’ says he; ‘a sheath-knife?’

“‘Left un below,’ says I. ‘What you want un for?’

“‘Jus’ a little job,’ says he.

“‘What kind of a job?’ says I.

“‘Oh,’ says he, ‘jus’ a little job I got t’ do!’

“Seemed nobody had a knife, so Jim Tool fetched his own from below.

“‘Find un?’ says I.

“‘Not my bes’ one,’ says he. ‘Jus’ my second bes’.’

“Skipper Alex ’lowed ’twould snow like goose feathers afore half an hour was out, but, somehow, sir, nobody cared, though the wind was breakin’ off shore in saucy puff’s an’ the ice pack was goin’ abroad.

“Jim Tool feeled the edge of his knife. ‘Isn’t my bes’ one,’ says he. ‘I got a new one somewheres.’

“I ’lowed he was a bit out o’ temper with the knife; an’ it did look sort o’ foul sir, along o’ overuse an’ neglect.

“‘Greasy,’ says he, wipin’ the blade on his boot; ‘wonderful greasy! Isn’t much use no more. Wisht I had my bes’ one. This here,’ says he, ‘is got three big nicks. But, anyhow, Arch,’ says he, ‘I won’t hurt you no more’n I can help!’

“Then, sir, knife in hand an’ murder hot in his heart, he bore down on Archibald Shott. ’Twas all over in a flash: Arch, lean an’ nimble as a imp, leaped the rail an’ put off over the ice toward the Black Bight cliffs, with Slow Jim in chase. Skipper Alex whistled ‘Whew!’ an’ looked perfeckly stupid along o’ s’prise; whereon, sir, havin’ come to his senses of a sudden, he let out a whoop like a siren whistle an’ vaulted overside. Then me, sir; then the whole bally crew! In jus’ a wink ’twas follow my leader over the pans t’ save Archibald Shott from slaughter: scramble an’ leap, sir, slip an’ splash – across the pans an’ over the pools an’ lanes o’ water.

“I ’low the skipper might o’ overhauled Jim an he hadn’t missed his leap an’ gone overhead ’longside. As for me, sir, wind an’ legs denied me.

“‘Hol’ on, Jim!’ sings I. ‘Wait for me!’

“But Jim wasn’t heedin’ what was behind; I ’low, sir, what with hate an’ the rage o’ years, he wasn’t thinkin’ o’ nothin’ ’cept t’ get a knife in the vitals o’ Archibald Shott so deep an’ soon as he was able. Seemed he’d do it, too, in quick time, for jus’ that minute Archibald slipped; his legs sailed up in the air, an’ he landed on his shoulders an’ rolled off into the water. But God bein’ on the watch jus’ then, sir, Jim leaped short hisself from the pan he was on, an’ afore he could crawl from the sea Arch was out an’ lopin’ like a hare over better goin’. Jim was too quick for me t’ nab; I was fetched up all standin’ by the lane he’d leaped – while he sailed on in chase o’ Arch. An’ meantime the crew was scattered north an’ south, every man Jack makin’ over the ice for the Black Bight cliffs by the course that looked best, so that Arch was drove in on the rocks. I ’lowed ’twould be over in a trice if somebody didn’t leap on the back o’ Slow Jim Tool; but in this I was mistook: for Archibald Shott, bein’ hunted an’ scared an’ nimble, didn’t wait at the foot o’ the cliff for Jim Tool’s greasy knife. He shinned on up – up an’ up an’ up – higher an’ higher – with his legs an’ arms sprawled out an’ workin’ like a spider. Nor neither did Jim stop short. No, sir! He slipped his knife in his belt – an’ up shinned he!

“‘Jim, you fool!’ sings I, when I come below, ‘you come down out o’ that!’

“But Jim jus’ kep’ mountin’.

“‘Jim!’ says I. ‘You want t’ fall an’ get hurted?’

“Up comes the skipper in a proper state o’ wrath an’ salt water. ‘Look you, Jim Tool!’ sings he; ‘you want t’ break your neck?’

“I ’lowed maybe Jim was too high up t’ hear.

“‘Tumm,’ says the skipper, ‘that fool will split Archibald Shott once he gets un. You go ’round by Tatter Brook,’ says he, ‘an’ climb the hill from behind. This foolishness is got t’ be stopped. Goin’ easy,’ says he, ‘you’ll beat Shott t’ the top o’ the cliff. He’ll be over first; let un go. But when Tool comes,’ says he, ‘why, you got a pair o’ arms there that can clinch a argument.’

“‘Ay,’ says I; ‘but what’ll come o’ Archibald?’

“‘Well,’ says the skipper, ‘it looks t’ me as if he’d be content jus’ t’ keep on goin’.’

“In this way, sir, I come t’ the top o’ the cliff. They was signs o’ weather – a black sky, puffs o’ wind jumpin’ out, scattered flakes o’ snow – but they wasn’t no sign o’ Archibald Shott. They was quite a reach o’ brink, sir, high enough from the shore ice t’ make a stomach squirm; an’ it took a deal o’ peepin’ an’ stretchin’ t’ spy out Arch an’ Jim. Then I ’lowed that Arch never would get over; for I seed, sir – lyin’ there on the edge o’ the cliff, with more head an’ shoulders stickin’ out in space than I cares t’ dream about o’ these quiet nights – I seed that Archibald Shott was cotched an’ could get no further. There he was, sir, stickin’ like plaster t’ the face o’ the cliff, some thirty feet below, finger-nails an’ feet dug into the rock, his face like a year-old corpse. I sung out a hearty word – though, God knows! my heart was empty o’ cheer – an’ I heard some words rattle in Shott’s dry throat, but couldn’t understand; an’ then, sir, overcome by space an’ that face o’ fear, I rolled back on the frozen moss, sick an’ limp. When I looked again I seed, so far below that they looked like fat swile on the ice, the skipper an’ the crew o’ the Billy Boy, starin’ up, with the floe an’ black sea beyond, lyin’ like a steep hill under the gray sky. Midway, swarmin’ up with cautious hands an’ feet, come Slow Jim Tool, his face as white an’ cold as the ice below, thin-lipped, wolf-eyed, his heart as cruel now, sir, his slow mind as keen, his muscles as tense an’ eager, as a brute’s on the hunt.

“‘Jim!’ says I. ‘Oh, Jim!’

“Jim jus’ come on up.

“‘Jim!’ says I. ‘Is that you?’

“Seemed, sir, it jus’ couldn’t be. Not Jim! Why, I nursed Jim! I tossed Jimmie Tool t’ the ceilin’ when he was a mushy infant too young t’ do any more’n jus’ gurgle. Why, at that minute, sir, like a dream in the gray space below, I could see Jimmie Tool’s yellow head an’ fat white legs an’ calico dresses, jus’ as they used t’ be.

“‘Jim,’ says I, ‘it can’t be you. Not you, Jim,’ says I; ‘not you!’

“‘Tumm,’ says he, ‘is he stuck? Can’t he get no farther?’

“Jim!

“‘If he can’t,’ says he, ‘I got un! I’ll knife un, Tumm,’ says he, ‘jus’ in a minute.’

“‘Don’t try it,’ says I.

“‘Don’t you fret, Tumm,’ says he. ‘Isn’t no fear o’ me fallin’. I’m all right.’

“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 nobody 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 dassn’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 shore. Wind was up now: blowin’ clean t’ sea, with flakes o’ snow swirlin’ in the lee o’ the cliff. It fair scraped 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 dassn’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 space. 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’ shore 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 passion of a gale t’ bear. An’ there I stood, sir, turned away from the rage o’ hearts that beat in breasts 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, ‘God 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?’

“I was afraid. ‘Keep clear!’ says I.

“‘Oh, why so?’ says he.

“‘I – I – don’t know!’ says I. ‘God help us all, I don’t know!’

“Then he falled prone, sir, an’ rolled over on his back, with his arms flung out, as if now he seed the blood on his hands; an’ he squirmed in the snow, sir, like a worm on a hook. ‘I wisht I hadn’t done it! Oh, dear God,’ says he, ‘I wisht I hadn’t done it!’

“Ah, poor little Jimmie Tool!

“I looked away, sir, west’ard, t’ where the sky had broken wide its gates. Ah, the sun had washed the crimson blood-drip from the clouds! ’Twas a flood o’ golden light. Colors o’ heaven streamin’ through upon the world! But yet so far away – beyond the forest, and, ay, beyond the farther sea! Maybe, sir, while my eyes searched the far-off sunlit spaces, that my heart fled back t’ fields o’ time more distant still. I remembered the lad that was Jimmie Tool. Warm-hearted, sir, aglow with tender wishes for the joy o’ folk; towheaded an’ stout an’ strong, straight o’ body an’ soul, with a heart lifted high, it seemed t’ me, from the reachin’ fingers o’ sin. Wasn’t nobody ever, sir, that touched Jimmie Tool in kindness ’ithout bein’ loved. ‘Ah, Jimmie,’ says I, when I looked in his clear gray eyes, ‘the world’ll be glad, some day, that you was born. Wisht I was a lad like you,’ says I, ‘an’ not a man like me.’ An’ he’d cotch hold o’ my hand, sir, an’ say: ‘Tumm, you is wonderful good t’ me. I ’low I’m a lucky lad,’ says he, ‘t’ have a friend like you.’ So now, sir, come back t’ the bleak cliffs o’ Black Bight, straight returned from the days of his childhood, with the golden dust o’ that time fresh upon my feet, the rosy light of it in my eyes, the breath o’ God in my heart, I kneeled in the snow beside Jim Tool an’ put a hand on his shoulder.

“‘Jimmie!’ says I.

“He would not take his hands from his eyes.

“‘Hush!’ says I, for I had forgot that he was no more a child. ‘Don’t cry!’

“He cotched my hand, sir, jus’ like he used t’do.

“’T’ me,’ says I, ‘you’ll always be the same little lad you used t’ be.’

“It eased un: poor little Jimmie Tool!”

Tumm’s face had not relaxed. ’Twas grim as ever. But I saw – and turned away – that tears were upon the seamed, bronzed cheeks. I listened to the wind blowing over Jump Harbor, and felt the oppression of the dark night, which lay thick upon the roads once known to the feet of this gray-eyed Jimmie Tool. My faith was turned gray by the tale. “Ecod!” Tumm burst in upon my musing, misled, perhaps, by this ancient sorrow, “I’m glad I didn’t make this damned world! An’, anyhow,” he continued, with a snap of indignation, “what happened after that was all done as among men. Wasn’t no cryin’ – least of all by Jim Tool. When the Billy Boy beat back t’ pick us up, all hands turned out t’ fish Archibald Shott from the breakers, an’ then we stowed un away in a little place by Tatter Brook, jus’ where the water tumbles down the hill. Jim ’lowed he might as well be took back an’ hanged in short order. The sooner, he says, the better it would suit. ’Lizabeth was dead, an’ Arch was dead, an’ he might as well go, too. Anyhow, says he, he ought to. But Skipper Alex wouldn’t hear to it. Wasn’t no time, says he; the crew couldn’t afford to lose the v’y’ge; an’, anyhow, says he, Jim wasn’t in no position t’ ask favors. So ’twas late in the fall, sir, afore Jim was give into the hands o’ the Tilt Cove constable. Then Jim an’ me an’ the skipper an’ some o’ the crew put out for St. John’s, where Jim had what they called his trial. An’ Jim ’lowed that if the jury could do so ’ithout drivin’ theirselves, an’ would jus’ order un hanged as soon as convenient, why, he’d be ’bliged. An’ – ”