Every Man for Himself Part 33

"Well," Jehoshaphat explained, "'tis your first."

This was a sufficient explanation of Timothy's discontent. Jehoshaphat remembered that he, too, had been troubled, fifteen years ago, when the first of the nine had brought the future to his attention. He was more at ease when this enlightenment came.

Old John Wull was a gray, lean little widower, with a bald head, bowed legs, a wide, straight, thin-lipped mouth, and shaven, ashy cheeks. His eyes were young enough, blue and strong and quick, often peering masterfully through the bushy brows, which he could let drop like a curtain. In contrast with the rugged hills and illimitable sea and stout men of Satan's Trap, his body was withered and contemptibly diminutive.

His premises occupied a point of sh.o.r.e within the harbor-a wharf, a storehouse, a shop, a red dwelling, broad drying-flakes, and a group of out-buildings, all of which were self-sufficient and proud, and looked askance at the cottages that lined the harbor sh.o.r.e and strayed upon the hills beyond.

It was his business to supply the needs of the folk in exchange for the fish they took from the sea-the barest need, the whole of the catch.

Upon this he insisted, because he conscientiously believed, in his own way, that upon the fruits of toil commercial enterprise should feed to satiety, and cast the peelings and cores into the back yard for the folk to nose like swine.

Thus he was accustomed to allow the fifty illiterate, credulous families of Satan's Trap sufficient to keep them warm and to quiet their stomachs, but no more; for, he complained: "Isn't they got enough on their backs?" and, "Isn't they got enough t' eat?" and, "Lord!" said he, "they'll be wantin' figs an' joolry next."

There were times when he trembled for the fortune he had gathered in this way-in years when there were no fish, and he must feed the men and women and human litters of the Trap for nothing at all, through which he was courageous, if n.i.g.g.ardly. When the folk complained against him, he wondered, with a righteous wag of the head, what would become of them if he should vanish with his property and leave them to fend for themselves. Sometimes he reminded them of this possibility; and then they got afraid, and thought of their young ones, and begged him to forget their complaint. His only disquietude was the fear of h.e.l.l: whereby he was led to pay the wage of a succession of parsons, if they preached comforting doctrine and blue-pencilled the needle's eye from the Testament; but not otherwise. By some wayward, compelling sense of moral obligation, he paid the school-teacher, invariably, generously, so that the little folk of Satan's Trap might learn to read and write in the winter months. 'Rithmetic he condemned, but tolerated, as being some part of that unholy, imperative thing called l'arnin'; but he had no feeling against readin' and writin'.

There was no other trader within thirty miles.

"They'll trade with me," John Wull would say to himself, and be comforted, "or they'll starve."

It was literally true.

In that winter certain gigantic forces, with which old John Wull had nothing whatever to do, were inscrutably pa.s.sionate. They went their way, in some vast, appalling quarrel, indifferent to the consequences.

John Wull's soul, money, philosophy, the hopes of Satan's Trap, the various agonies of the young, were insignificant. Currents and winds and frost had no knowledge of them. It was a late season: the days were gray and bitter, the air was frosty, the snow lay crisp and deep in the valleys, the harbor water was frozen. Long after the time for blue winds and yellow hills the world was still sullen and white. Easterly gales, blowing long and strong, swept the far outer sea of drift-ice-drove it in upon the land, pans and bergs, and heaped it against the cliffs.

There was no safe exit from Satan's Trap. The folk were shut in by ice and an impa.s.sable wilderness. This was not by the power or contriving of John Wull: the old man had nothing to do with it; but he compelled the season, impiously, it may be, into conspiracy with him. By-and-by, in the cottages, the store of food, which had seemed sufficient when the first snow flew, was exhausted. The flour-barrels of Satan's Trap were empty. Full barrels were in the storehouse of John Wull, but in no other place. So it chanced that one day, in a swirling fall of snow, Jehoshaphat Rudd came across the harbor with a dog and a sled.

John Wull, from the little office at the back of the shop, where it was warm and still, watched the fisherman breast the white wind.

"Mister Wull," said Jehoshaphat, when he stood in the office, "I 'low I'll be havin' another barrel o' flour."

Wull frowned.

"Ay," Jehoshaphat repeated, perplexed; "another barrel."

Wull pursed his lips.

"O' flour," said Jehoshaphat, staring.

The trader drummed on the desk and gazed out of the window. He seemed to forget that Jehoshaphat Rudd stood waiting. Jehoshaphat felt awkward and out of place; he smoothed his tawny beard, cracked his fingers, scratched his head, s.h.i.+fted from one foot to the other. Some wonder troubled him, then some strange alarm. He had never before realized that the lives of his young were in the keeping of this man.

"Flour," he ventured, weakly-"one barrel."

Wull turned. "It's gone up," said he.

"Have it, now!" Jehoshaphat exclaimed. "I 'lowed last fall, when I paid eight," he proceeded, "that she'd clumb as high as she could get 'ithout fallin'. But she've gone up, says you? Dear man!"

"Sky high," said the trader.

"Dear man!"

The stove was serene and of good conscience. It labored joyously in response to the clean-souled wind. For a moment, while the trader watched the snow through his bushy brows and Jehoshaphat Rudd hopelessly scratched his head, its hearty, honest roar was the only voice lifted in the little office at the back of John Wull's shop.

"An' why?" Jehoshaphat timidly asked.

"Scarcity."

"Oh," said Jehoshaphat, as though he understood. He paused. "Isn't you got as much as you _had?_" he inquired.

The trader nodded.

"Isn't you got enough in the storehouse t' last till the mail-boat runs?"

"Plenty, thank G.o.d!"

"Scarcity," Jehoshaphat mused. "Mm-m-m! Oh, I _sees_," he added, vacantly. "Well, Mister Wull," he sighed, "I 'low I'll take one of Early Rose an' pay the rise."

Wull whistled absently.

"Early Rose," Jehoshaphat repeated, with a quick, keen glance of alarm.

The trader frowned.

"Rose," Jehoshaphat muttered. He licked his lips. "Of Early," he reiterated, in a gasp, "Rose."

"All right, Jehoshaphat."

Down came the big key from the nail. Jehoshaphat's round face beamed.

The trader slapped his ledger shut, moved toward the door, but stopped dead, and gazed out of the window, while his brows fell over his eyes, and he fingered the big key.

"Gone up t' eighteen," said he, without turning.

Jehoshaphat stared aghast.

"Wonderful high for flour," the trader continued, in apologetic explanation; "but flour's wonderful scarce."

"Tisn't _right!_" Jehoshaphat declared. "Eighteen dollars a barrel for Early Rose? 'Tisn't right!"

The key was restored to the nail.

"I can't pay it, Mister Wull. No, no, man, I can't do it. Eighteen!

Mercy o' G.o.d! 'Tisn't right! 'Tis too _much_ for Early Rose."

The trader wheeled.

"An' I _won't_ pay it," said Jehoshaphat.

"You don't have to," was the placid reply.