Every Man for Himself Part 18

"I was afraid. 'Keep clear!' says I.

"'Oh, why so?' says he.

"'I-I-don't know!' says I. 'G.o.d help us all, I don't _know_!'

"Then he falled p.r.o.ne, 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 G.o.d,' 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 s.p.a.ces, 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 n.o.body 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' G.o.d 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.

"'Hus.h.!.+' 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 d.a.m.ned 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'-"

Tumm paused.

"Well?" I interrogated.

"The jury," Tumm answered, "_jus' wouldn't do it_!"

"And Jimmie?"

"Jus' fis.h.i.+n'."

Poor little Jimmie Tool!

V-THE FOOL OF SKELETON TICKLE

When the wheezy little mail-boat rounded the Liar's Tombstone-that gray, immobile head, forever dwelling upon its forgotten tragedy-she "opened"

Skeleton Tickle; and this was where the fool was born, and where he lived his life, such as it was, and, in the end, gave it up in uttermost disgust. It was a wretched Newfoundland settlement of the remoter parts, isolated on a stretch of naked coast, itself lying unappreciatively snug beside sheltered water: being but a congregation of stark white cottages and turf huts, builded at haphazard, each aloof from its despairing neighbor, all sticking like lean incrustations to the bare brown hills-habitations of men, to be sure, which elsewhere had surely relieved the besetting dreariness with the grace and color of life, but in this place did not move the gray, unsmiling prospect of rock and water. The day was clammy: a thin, pervasive fog had drenched the whole world, now damp to the touch, dripping to the sight; the wind, out of temper with itself, blew cold and viciously, fretting the sea to a swis.h.i.+ng lop, in which the harbor punts, anch.o.r.ed for the day's fis.h.i.+ng in the shallows over Lost Men grounds, were tossed and flung about in a fas.h.i.+on vastly nauseating to the beholder.... Poor devils of men and boys! Toil for them, dawn to dark; with every reward of labor-love and all the delights of life-changed by the unhappy lot: turned sordid, cheerless, b.e.s.t.i.a.l....

"Ha!" interrupted my chance acquaintance, leaning upon the rail with me.

"I am ver' good business man. Eh? You not theenk?" There was a saucy challenge in this; it left no escape by way of bored credulity; no man of proper feeling could accept the boast of this ingratiating, frowsy, yellow-eyed Syrian peddler. "Ha!" he proceeded. "You not theenk, eh? But I have tell you-I-myself! I am thee bes' business man in Newf'un'lan'."

He threw back his head; regarded me with pride and mystery, eyes half closed. "No? Come, I tell you! I am thee _mos'_ bes' business man in Newf'un'lan'. Eh? Not so? Ay, I am thee ver' mos' bes' business man in all thee worl'. I-Tanous s.h.i.+va-I-_I_!" He struck his breast. "I have be thee man. An' thee mos' fool-thee mos' beeg fool-thee mos' fearful beeg fool in all thee worl' leeve there. Ay, zur; he have leeve there-dead ahead-t' Skeleton Teekle. You not theenk? Ha! I tell you-I tell you now-a mos' won-dair-ful fun-ee t'ing. You hark? Ver' well. Ha!" he exclaimed, clasping his hands in an ecstasy of delight. "How you will have laugh w'en I tell!" He sobered. "I am now," he said, solemnly, "be-geen. You hark?"

I nodded.

"First," he continued, gravely important, as one who discloses a mystery, "I am tell you thee name of thee beeg fool. James All-his name.

Ol' bach. Ver' ol' bach. Ver' rich man. Ho! mos' rich. You not theenk?

Ver' well. I am once hear tell he have seven lobster-tin full of gold.

MyG.o.d! I am mos' put crazy. Lobster-tin-seven! An' he have half-bushel of silver dollar. How he get it? Ver' well. His gran'-father work ver'

hard; his father work ver' hard; all thee gold come to this man, an'

_he_ work ver', ver' hard. They work fearful-in thee gale, in thee cold; they work, work, work, for thee gold. Many, many year ago, long time past, thee gold be-geen to have save. It be-geen to have save many year afore I am born. Eh? Fun-ee t'ing! They work, work, work; but _I_ am not work. Oh no! I am leetle baby. They save, save, save; but _I_ am not save. Oh no! I am foolsh boy, in Damascus. Ver' well. By-'n'-by I am thee growed man, an' they have fill thee seven lobster-tin with thee gold. For what? Eh? I am tell you what for. Ha! I am show you I am ver'

good business man. I am thee ver' mos' bes' business man in Newf'un'lan'."

My glance, quick, suspicious, was not of the kindest, and it caught his eye.

"You theenk I have get thee gold?" he asked, archly. "You theenk I have get thee seven lobster-tin?... MyG.o.d!" he cried, throwing up his hands in genuine horror. "You theenk I have _steal_ thee gold? No, no! I am ver' hones' business man. I say my prayer all thee nights. I geeve nine dollar fifty to thee Orth'dox Church in Was.h.i.+n'ton Street in one year. I am thee mos' hones' business man in Newf'un'lan'-an'" (significantly), "I am _ver' good_ business man."

His eyes were guileless....

A punt slipped past, bound out, staggering over a rough course to Lost Men grounds. The spray, rising like white dust, drenched the crew. An old man held the sheet and steering-oar. In the bow a scrawny boy bailed the s.h.i.+pped water-both listless, both misshapen and ill clad. Bitter, toilsome, precarious work, this, done by folk impoverished in all things. Seven lobster-tins of gold coin! Three generations of labor and cruel adventure, in gales and frosts and famines, had been consumed in gathering it. How much of weariness? How much of pain? How much of evil?

How much of peril, despair, deprivation? And it was true: this alien peddler, the on-looker, had the while been unborn, a babe, a boy, laboring not at all; but by chance, in the end, he had come, covetous and sly, within reach of all the fruit of this malforming toil....

"Look!"

I followed the lean, brown finger to a spot on a bare hill-a sombre splash of black.

"You see? Ver' well. One time he leeve there-this grea' beeg fool. His house it have be burn down. How? Ver' well. I tell you. All people want thee gold. All people-all-all! 'Ha!' theenk a boy. 'I mus' have thee seven lobster-tin of gold. I am want buy thee parasol for 'Liza Hull nex' time thee trader come. I _mus'_ have thee gold of ol' Skip' Jim. If I not, then Sam Tom will have buy thee parasol from Tanous s.h.i.+va. 'Liza Hull will have love him an' not me. I _mus'_ have 'Liza Hull love me.

Oh,' theenk he, 'I _mus'_ have 'Liza Hull love me! I am not can leeve 'ithout that beeg 'Liza Hull with thee red cheek an' blue eye!' (Ver'

poor taste thee men have for thee girl in Newf'un'lan'.) 'Ha!' theenk he. 'I mus' have thee gold. I am burn thee house an' get thee gold. Then I have buy thee peenk parasol from Tom s.h.i.+va.' Fool! Ver' beeg fool-that boy. Burn thee house? Ver' poor business. Mos' poor. Burn thee house of ol' Skip' Jim? Pooh!"

It seemed to me, too-so did the sly fellow bristle and puff with contempt-that the wretched lad's directness of method was most reprehensible; but I came to my senses later, and I have ever since known that the highwayman was in some sort a worthy fellow.

"Ver' well. For two year I know 'bout thee seven lobster-tin of gold, an' for two year I make thee great frien' along o' Skip' Jim-thee greates' frien'; thee ver' greates' frien'-for I am want thee gold. Aie!

I am all thee time stop with Skip' Jim. I am go thee church with Skip'

Jim. I am kneel thee prayer with Skip' Jim. (I am ver' good man about thee prayer-ver' good business man.) Skip' Jim he theenk me thee Jew.

Pooh! I am not care. I say, 'Oh yess, Skip' Jim; I am mos' sad about what thee Jews done. Bad Jew done that.' 'You good Jew, Tom,' he say; 'I am not hol' you to thee 'count. Oh no, Tom; you good Jew,' he say. 'You would not do what thee bad Jews done.' 'Oh no, Skip' Jim,' I say, 'I am ver' good man-ver', ver' good man.'"

The peddler was gravely silent for a s.p.a.ce.

"I am hones' man," he continued. "I am thee mos' hones' business man in Newf'un'lan'. So I mus' have wait for thee gold. Ah," he sighed, "it have be _mos'_ hard to wait. I am almos' break thee heart. But I am hones' man-ver', ver' hones' man-an' I _mus'_ have wait. Now I tell you what have happen: I am come ash.o.r.e one night, an' it is thee nex' night after thee boy have burn thee house of Skip' Jim for the peenk parasol.

"'Where Skip' Jim house?' I say.

"'Burn down,' they say.