Every Man for Himself Part 3

He ducked real skilful, an' come out of it smilin', if sputterin'.

"'Now, Tumm,' says he, 'if we was t' the s'uth'ard, where they says 'tis warm an' different, an' lives isn't lived the same, maybe you'd be on the pan o' ice, an' I'd be aboard the berg; maybe you'd be like t'

starve, an' I'd get so much as forty cents a day the year round. They's a great waste in life,' says he; 'I don't know why, but there 'tis. An'

I 'low I'm gone t' waste on this here coast. I been born out o' place, that's all. But they's a place somewheres for such as me-somewheres for the likes o' me. T' the s'uth'ard, now, maybe, they'd _be_ a place; t'

the s'uth'ard, maybe, the folk would want t' know about the things I thinks out-ay, maybe they'd even _pay_ for the labor I'm put to! But _here_, you lives, an' I dies. Don't you see, Tumm? 'Tis the law! 'Tis why a Newf'un'lander ain't a n.i.g.g.e.r. More'n that, 'tis why a dog's a dog on land an' a swile in the water; 'tis why a dog haves legs an' a swile haves flippers. Don't you see? 'Tis the law!'

"'I don't quite find you,' says I.

"Poor Botch shook his head. 'They isn't enough words in langwitch,' says he, 't' 'splain things. Men ought t' get t' work an' make more.'

"'But tell me,' says I.

"Then, by Botch's regular ill luck, under he went, an' it took un quite a spell t' cough his voice into workin' order.

"'Excuse me,' says he. 'I'm sorry. It come too suddent t' be ducked.'

"'Sure!' says I. '_I_ don't mind.'

"'Tumm,' says he, 'it all comes down t' this: _The thing that lives is the kind o' thing that's best fit t' live in the place it lives in_.

That's a law o' life! An' n.o.body but _me_, Tumm,' says he, 'ever knowed it afore!'

"'It don't amount t' nothin',' says I.

"'Tis a law o' life!'

"'But it don't _mean_ nothin'.'

"'Tumm,' says he, discouraged, 'I can't talk t' you no more. I'm too busy. I 'lowed when I seed you there on the berg that you'd tell somebody what I thunk out last night if you got clear o' this mess. An'

I _wanted_ everybody t' know. I did so _want_ un t' know-an't' know that Abraham Botch o' Jug Cove did the thinkin' all by hisself! But you don't seem able. An', anyhow,' says he, 'I'm too busy t' talk no more. They's a deal more hangin' on that law 'n I told you. The beasts o' the field is born under it, an' the trees o' the forest, an' all that lives.

They's a bigger law behind; an' I got t' think that out afore the sea works up. I'm sorry, Tumm; but if you don't mind, I'll just go on thinkin'. You _won't_ mind, will you, Tumm? I wouldn't like you t' feel bad.'

"'Lord, no!' says I. '_I_ won't mind.'

"'Thank you, Tumm,' says he. 'For I'm greatly took by thinkin'.'

"An' so Botch sputtered an' thunk an' kep' his neck limber 'til he drifted out o' sight in the snow."

But that was not the last of the Jug Cove philosopher.

"Next time I seed Botch," Tumm resumed, "we was both s.h.i.+pped by chance for the Labrador from Twillingate. 'Twas aboard the dirty little _Three Sisters_-a thirty-ton, fore-an'-aft green-fish catcher, skippered by Mad Bill Likely o' Yellow Tail Tickle. An' poor Botch didn't look healthful.

He was blue an' wan an' wonderful thin. An' he didn't look at all _right_. Poor Botch-ah, poor old Botch! They wasn't no more o' them fuddlin' questions; they wasn't no more o' that c.o.c.k-sure, tickled little cackle. Them big, deep eyes o' his, which used t' be clean an'

fearless an' sad an' nice, was all misty an' red, like a nasty sunset, an' most unpleasant s.h.i.+fty. I 'lowed I'd take a look in, an' sort o'

fathom what was up; but they was too quick for me-they got away every time; an' I never seed more'n a shadow. An' he kep' lookin' over his shoulder, an' c.o.c.kin' his ears, an' givin' suddent starts, like a poor wee child on a dark road. They wasn't no more o' that sinful gettin'

into nothin'-no more o' that puttin' away o' the rock an' sea an' the great big sky. I 'lowed, by the Lord! that he couldn't _do_ it no more.

All them big things had un scared t' death. He didn't dast forget they was there. He couldn't get into nothin' no more. An' so I knowed he wouldn't be happy aboard the _Three Sisters_ with that devil of a Mad Bill Likely o' Yellow Tail Tickle for skipper.

"'Botch,' says I, when we was off Mother Burke, 'how is you, b'y?'

"'Oh, farin' along,' says he.

"'Ay,' says I; 'but how _is_ you, b'y?'

"'Farin' along,' says he.

"'It ain't a answer,' says I. 'I'm askin' a plain question, Botch.'

"'Well, Tumm,' says he, 'the fac' is, Tumm, I'm-sort o'-jus'-farin'

along.'

"We crossed the Straits of a moonlight night. The wind was fair an'

light. Mad Bill was t' the wheel: for he 'lowed he wasn't goin' t' have no chances took with a Lally Line steamer, havin' been sunk oncet by the same. 'Twas a kind an' peaceful night. I've never knowed the world t' be more t' rest an' kinder t' the sons o' men. The wind was from the s'uth'ard, a point or two east: a soft wind an' sort o' dawdlin'

careless an' happy toward the Labrador. The sea was sound asleep; an'

the schooner cuddled up, an' dreamed, an' snored, an' sighed, an' rolled along, as easy as a s.h.i.+p could be. Moonlight was over all the world-so soft an' sweet an' playful an' white; it said, 'Hus.h.!.+' an', 'Go t'

sleep!' All the stars that ever shone was wide awake an' winkin'. A playful crew-them little stars! Wink! wink! 'Go t'sleep!' says they.

''Tis our watch,' says they. '_We'll_ take care o' _you_.' An' t'

win'ward-far off-black an' low-was Cape Norman o' Newf'un'land.

Newf'un'land! Ah, we're all mad with love o' she! Good-night!' says she.

'Fair v'y'ge,' says she; 'an' may you come home loaded!' Sleep? Ay; men could sleep that night. They wasn't no fear at sea. Sleep? Ay; they wasn't no fear in all the moonlit world.

"An' then up from the forecastle comes Botch o' Jug Cove.

"'Tumm,' says he, 'you isn't turned in.'

"'No, Botch,' says I. 'It isn't my watch; but I 'lowed I'd lie here on this cod-trap an' wink back at the stars.'

"'I can't sleep,' says he. 'Oh, Tumm, I _can't_!'

"''Tis a wonderful fine night,' says I.

"'Ay,' says he; 'but-'

"'But what?' says I.

"'You never can tell,' says he

"'Never can tell what?'

"'What's goin' t' happen.'

"I took one look-just one look into them s.h.i.+verin' eyes-an' shook my head. 'Do you 'low,' says I, 'that we can hit that berg off the port bow?'

"'You never can tell,' says he.

"'Good Lord!' says I. 'With Mad Bill Likely o' Yellow Tail Tickle at the wheel? Botch,' says I, 'you're gone mad. What's _come_ along o' you?

Where's the _is_ an' the _was_ an' the _will be_? What's come o' that law o' life?'

"'Hist!' says he.

"'Not me!' says I. 'I'll hush for no man. What's come o' the law o'