"I'm not knowin'," my sister sighed, still staring out to sea, "what's beyond the mist."

"Nor I."

'Twas like a curtain, veiling some dread mystery, as an ancient tragedy—but new to us, who sat waiting: and far past our guessing.

"I wonder what we'll see, dear," she whispered, "when the mist lifts."

"'Tis some woeful thing."

She leaned forward, staring, breathing deep, seeking with the strange gift of women to foresee the event; but she sighed, at last, and gave it up.

"I'm not knowin'," she said.

We turned homeward; and thereafter—through the months of that summer—we were diligent in business: but with small success, for Jagger of Wayfarer's Tickle, seizing the poor advantage with great glee, now foully slandered and oppressed us.

* * * * *

Near midsummer our coast was mightily outraged by the sailings of the Sink or Swim, Jim Tall, master—Jagger's new schooner, trading our ports and the harbours of the Newfoundland French Shore, with a case of smallpox in the forecastle. We were all agog over it, bitterly angered, every one of us; and by day we kept watch from the heads to warn her off, and by night we saw to our guns, that we might instantly deal with her, should she so much as poke her prow into the waters of our harbour. Once, being on the Watchman with my father's glass, I fancied I sighted her, far off shore, beating up to Wayfarer's Tickle in the dusk: but could not make sure, for there was a haze abroad, and her cut was not yet well known to us. Then we heard no more of her, until, by and by, the skipper of the Huskie Dog, bound north, left news that she was still at large to the south, and sang us a rousing song, which, he said, had been made by young Dannie Crew of Ragged Harbour, and was then vastly popular with the folk of the places below.

"Oh, have you seed the skipper o' the schooner Sink or Swim? We'll use a rope what's long an' strong, when we cotches him. He've a case o' smallpox for'ard, An' we'll hang un, by the Lord! For he've traded every fishin' port from Conch t' Harbour Rim.

"T' save the folk that dreads it, We'll hang the man that spreads it, They's lakes o' fire in hell t' sail for such as Skipper Jim!"

My sister, sweet maid! being then in failing health and spirits, I secretly took ship with the skipper of the Bonnie Betsy Buttercup, bound south with the first load of that season: this that I might surely fetch the doctor to my sister's help, who sorely needed cheer and healing, lest she die like a thirsty flower, as my heart told me. And I found the doctor busy with the plague at Bay Saint Billy, himself quartered aboard the Greased Lightning, a fore-and-after which he had chartered for the season: to whom I lied diligently and without shame concerning my sister's condition, and with such happy effect that we put to sea in the brewing of the great gale of that year, with our topsail and tommy-dancer spread to a sousing breeze. But so evil a turn did the weather take—so thick and wild—that we were thrice near driven on a lee shore, and, in the end, were glad enough to take chance shelter behind Saul's Island, which lies close to the mainland near the Harbourless Shore. There we lay three days, with all anchors over the side, waiting in comfortable security for the gale to blow out; and 'twas at dusk of the third day that we were hailed from the coast rocks by that ill-starred young castaway of the name of Docks whose tale precipitated the final catastrophe in the life of Jagger of Wayfarer's Tickle.

* * * * *

He was only a lad, but, doubtless, rated a man; and he was now sadly woebegone—starved, shivering, bruised by the rocks and breaking water from which he had escaped. We got him into the cozy forecastle, clapped him on the back, put him in dry duds; and, then, "Come, now, lads!" cried Billy Lisson, the hearty skipper of the Greased Lightning, "don't you go sayin' a word 'til I brew you a cup o' tea. On the Harbourless Shore, says you? An' all hands lost? Don't you say a word. Not one!"

The castaway turned a ghastly face towards the skipper. "No," he whispered, in a gasp, "not one."

"Not you!" Skipper Billy rattled. "You keep mum. Don't you so much as mutter 'til I melts that iceberg in your belly."

"No, sir."

Perchance to forestall some perverse attempt at loquacity, Skipper Billy lifted his voice in song—a large, rasping voice, little enough acquainted with melody, but expressing the worst of the rage of those days: being thus quite sufficient to the occasion.

"Oh, have you seed the skipper o' the schooner Sink or Swim? We'll use a rope what's long an' strong, when we cotches him. He've a case o' smallpox for'ard, An' we'll hang un, by the Lord! For he've traded every fishin' port from Conch t' Harbour Rim.

"T' save the folk that dreads it, We'll hang the man that spreads it, They's lakes o' fire in hell t' sail for such as Skipper Jim!"

"Skipper Billy, sir," said Docks, hoarsely, leaning into the light of the forecastle lamp, "does you say hang? Was they goin' t' hang Skipper Jim if they cotched him?"

"Was we?" asked Skipper Billy. "By God," he roared, "we is!"

"My God!" Docks whispered, staring deep into the skipper's eyes, "they was goin' t' hang the skipper!"

There was not so much as the drawing of a breath then to be heard in the forecastle of the Greased Lightning. Only the wind, blowing in the night—and the water lapping at the prow—broke the silence.

"Skipper Billy, sir," said Docks, his voice breaking to a whimper, "was they goin' t' hang the crew? They wasn't, was they? Not goin' t' hang un?"

"Skipper t' cook, lad," Skipper Billy answered, the words prompt and sure. "Hang un by the neck 'til they was dead."

"My God!" Docks whined. "They was goin' t' hang the crew!"

"But we isn't cotched un yet."

"No," said the boy, vacantly. "Nor you never will."

The skipper hitched close to the table. "Lookee, lad," said he, leaning over until his face was close to the face of Docks, "was you ever aboard the Sink or Swim?"

"Ay, sir," Docks replied, at last, brushing his hair from his brow. "I was clerk aboard the Sink or Swim two days ago."

For a time Skipper Billy quietly regarded the lad—the while scratching his beard with a shaking hand.

"Clerk," Docks sighed, "two days ago."

"Oh, was you?" the skipper asked. "Well, well!" His lower jaw dropped. "An' would mind tellin' us," he continued, his voice now touched with passion, "what's come o' that damned craft?"

"She was lost on the Harbourless Shore, sir, with all hands—but me."

"Thank God for that!"

"Ay, thank God!"

Whereupon the doctor vaccinated Docks.



XXV

A CAPITAL CRIME

"You never set eyes on old Skipper Jim, did you, Skipper Billy?" Docks began, later, that night. "No? Well, he was a wonderful hard man. They says the devil was abroad the night of his bornin'; but I'm thinkin' that Jagger o' Wayfarer's Tickle had more t' do with the life he lived than ever the devil could manage. 'Twas Jagger that owned the Sink or Swim; 'twas he that laid the courses—ay, that laid this last one, too. Believe me, sir," now turning to Doctor Luke, who had uttered a sharp exclamation, "for I knowed Jagger, an' I sailed along o' Skipper Jim. 'Skipper Jim,' says I, when the trick we played was scurvy, 'this here ain't right.' 'Right?' says he. 'Jagger's gone an' laid that word by an' forgot where he put it.' 'But you, Skipper Jim,' says I, 'you; what you doin' this here for?' 'Well, Docks,' says he, 'Jagger,' says he, 'says 'tis a clever thing t' do, an' I'm thinkin',' says he, 'that Jagger's near right. Anyhow,' says he, 'Jagger's my owner.'"

Doctor Luke put his elbows on the forecastle table, his chin on his hands—and thus gazed, immovable, at young Docks.

"Skipper Jim," the lad went on, "was a lank old man, with a beard that used t' put me in mind of a dead shrub on a cliff. Old, an' tall, an' skinny he was; an' the flesh of his face was sort o' wet an' whitish, as if it had no feelin'. They wasn't a thing in the way o' wind or sea that Skipper Jim was afeard of. I like a brave man so well as anybody does, but I haven't no love for a fool; an' I've seed him beat out o' safe harbour, with all canvas set, when other schooners was reefed down an' runnin' for shelter. Many a time I've took my trick at the wheel when the most I hoped for was three minutes t' say my prayers.

"'Skipper, sir,' we used t' say, when 'twas lookin' black an' nasty t' win'ard an' we was wantin' t' run for the handiest harbour, ''tis like you'll be holdin' on for Rocky Cove. Sure, you've no call t' run for harbour from this here blow!'

"'Stand by that mainsheet there!' he'd yell. 'Let her off out o' the wind. We'll be makin' for Harbour Round for shelter. Holdin' on, did you say? My dear man, they's a whirlwind brewin'!'

"But if 'twas blowin' hard—a nor'east snorter, with the gale raisin' a wind-lop on the swell, an' the night comin' down—if 'twas blowin' barb'rous hard, sometimes we'd get scared.

"'Skipper,' we couldn't help sayin', ''tis time t' get out o' this. Leave us run for shelter, man, for our lives!'

"'Steady, there, at the wheel!' he'd sing out. 'Keep her on her course. 'Tis no more than a clever sailin' breeze.'

"Believe me, sir," Docks sighed, "they wasn't a port Skipper Jim wouldn't make, whatever the weather, if he could trade a dress or a Bible or a what-not for a quintal o' fish. 'Docks,' says he, 'Jagger,' says he, 'wants fish, an' I got t' get un.' So it wasn't pleasant sailin' along o' him in the fall o' the year, when the wind was all in the nor'east, an' the shore was a lee shore every night o' the week. No, sir! 'twasn't pleasant sailin' along o' Skipper Jim in the Sink or Swim. On no account, 'twasn't pleasant! Believe me, sir, when I lets my heart feel again the fears o' last fall, I haven't no love left for Jim. No, sir! doin' what he done this summer, I haven't no love left for Jim.

"'It's fish me an' Jagger wants, b'y,' says he t' me, 'an' they's no one'll keep un from us.'

"'Dear man!' says I, pointin' t' the scales, 'haven't you got no conscience?'

"'Conscience!' says he. 'What's that? Sure,' says he, 'Jagger never heared that word!'

"Well, sir, as you knows, there's been a wonderful cotch o' fish on the Labrador side o' the Straits this summer. An' when Skipper Jim hears a Frenchman has brought the smallpox t' Poor Luck Harbour, we was tradin' the French shore o' Newfoundland. Then he up an' cusses the smallpox, an' says he'll make a v'y'ge of it, no matter what. I'm thinkin' 'twas all the fault o' the cook, the skipper bein' the contrary man he was; for the cook he says he've signed t' cook the grub, an' he'll cook 'til he drops in his tracks, but he haven't signed t' take the smallpox, an' he'll be jiggered for a squid afore he'll sail t' the Labrador. 'Smallpox!' says the skipper. 'Who says 'tis the smallpox? Me an' Jagger says 'tis the chicken-pox.' So the cook—the skipper havin' the eyes he had—says he'll sail t' the Labrador all right, but he'll see himself hanged for a mutineer afore he'll enter Poor Luck Harbour. 'Poor Luck Harbour, is it?' says the skipper. 'An' is that where they've the—the—smallpox?' says he. 'We'll lay a course for Poor Luck Harbour the morrow. I'll prove 'tis the chicken-pox or eat the man that has it.' So the cook—the skipper havin' the eyes he had—says he ain't afraid o' no smallpox, but he knows what'll come of it if the crew gets ashore.

"'Ho, ho! cook,' says the skipper. 'You'll go ashore along o' me, me boy.'

"The next day we laid a course for Poor Luck Harbour, with a fair wind; an' we dropped anchor in the cove that night. In the mornin', sure enough, the skipper took the cook an' the first hand ashore t' show un a man with the chicken-pox; but I was kep' aboard takin' in fish, for such was the evil name the place had along o' the smallpox that we was the only trader in the harbour, an' had all the fish we could handle.

"'Skipper,' says I, when they come aboard, 'is it the smallpox?'

"'Docks, b'y,' says he, lookin' me square in the eye, 'you never yet heard me take back my words. I said I'd eat the man that had it. But I tells you what, b'y, I ain't hankerin' after a bite o' what I seed!'

"'We'll be liftin' anchor an' gettin' t' sea, then,' says I; for it made me shiver t' hear the skipper talk that way.

"'Docks, b'y,' says he, 'we'll be liftin' anchor when we gets all the fish they is. Jagger,' says he, 'wants fish, an' I'm the boy t' get un. When the last one's weighed an' stowed, we'll lift anchor an' out; but not afore.'

"We was three days out from Poor Luck Harbour, tradin' Kiddle Tickle, when Tommy Mib, the first hand, took a suddent chill. 'Tommy, b'y,' says the cook, 'you cotched cold stowin' the jib in the squall day afore yesterday. I'll be givin' you a dose o' pain-killer an' pepper.' So the cook give Tommy a wonderful dose o' pain-killer an' pepper an' put un t' bed. But 'twas not long afore Tommy had a pain in the back an' a burnin' headache. 'Tommy, b'y,' says the cook, 'you'll be gettin' the inflammation, I'm thinkin'. I'll have t' put a plaster o' mustard an' red pepper on your chest.' So the cook put a wonderful large plaster o' mustard an' red pepper on poor Tommy's chest, an' told un t' lie quiet. Then Tommy got wonderful sick—believe me, sir, wonderful sick! An' the cook could do no more, good cook though he was.

"'Tommy,' says he, 'you got something I don't know nothin' about.'

"'Twas about that time that we up with the anchor an' run t' Hollow Cove, where we heard they was a grand cotch o' fish, all dry an' waitin' for the first trader t' pick it up. They'd the smallpox there, sir, accordin' t' rumour; but we wasn't afeard o' cotchin' it—thinkin' we'd not cotched it at Poor Luck Harbour—an' sailed right in t' do the tradin'. We had the last quintal aboard at noon o' the next day; an' we shook out the canvas an' laid a course t' the nor'ard, with a fair, light wind. We was well out from shore when the skipper an' me went down t' the forecastle t' have a cup o' tea with the cook; an' we was hard at it when Tommy Mib hung his head out of his bunk.

"'Skipper,' says he, in a sick sort o' whisper, 'I'm took.'

"'What's took you?' says the skipper.

"'Skipper,' says he, 'I—I'm—took.'

"'What's took you, you fool?' says the skipper.

"Poor Tommy fell back in his bunk. 'Skipper,' he whines, 'I've cotched it!'

"''Tis the smallpox, sir,' says I. 'I seed the spots.'

"'No such nonsense!' says the skipper. ''Tis the measles. That's what he've got. Jagger an' me says so.'

"'But Jagger ain't here,' says I.

"'Never you mind about that,' says he. 'I knows what Jagger thinks.'

"When we put into Harbour Grand we knowed it wasn't no measles. When we dropped anchor there, sir, we knowed what 'twas. Believe me, sir, we knowed what 'twas. The cook he up an' says he ain't afraid o' no smallpox, but he'll be sunk for a coward afore he'll go down the forecastle ladder agin. An' the second hand he says he likes a bunk in the forecastle when he can have one comfortable, but he've no objection t' the hold at times. 'Then, lads,' says the skipper, 'you'll not be meanin' t' look that way agin,' says he, with a snaky little glitter in his eye. 'An' if you do, you'll find a fist about the heft o' that,' says he, shakin' his hand, 't' kiss you at the foot o' the ladder.' After that the cook an' the second hand slep' in the hold, an' them an' me had a snack o' grub at odd times in the cabin, where I had a hammock slung, though the place was wonderful crowded with goods. 'Twas the skipper that looked after Tommy Mib. 'Twas the skipper that sailed the ship, too,—drove her like he'd always done: all the time eatin' an' sleepin' in the forecastle, where poor Tommy Mib lay sick o' the smallpox. But we o' the crew kep' our distance when the ol' man was on deck; an' they was no rush for'ard t' tend the jib an' stays'l when it was 'Hard a-lee!' in a beat t' win'ard—no rush at all. Believe me, sir, they was no rush for'ard—with Tommy Mib below.

"'Skipper Jim,' says I, one day, 'what is you goin' t' do?'

"'Well, Docks,' says he, 'I'm thinkin' I'll go see Jagger.'

"So we beat up t' Wayfarer's Tickle—makin' port in the dusk. Skipper Jim went ashore, but took nar a one of us with un. He was there a wonderful long time; an' when he come aboard, he orders the anchor up an' all sail made.

"'Where you goin'?' says I.

"'Tradin',' says he.

"'Is you?' says I.

"'Ay,' says he. 'Jagger says 'tis a wonderful season for fish.'"

Docks paused. "Skipper Billy," he said, breaking off the narrative and fixing the impassive skipper of the Greased Lightning with an anxious eye, "did they have the smallpox at Tops'l Cove? Come now; did they?"

"Ay, sir," Skipper Billy replied; "they had the smallpox at Tops'l Cove."

"Dear man!" Docks repeated, "they had the smallpox at Tops'l Cove! We was three days at Tops'l Cove, with folk aboard every day, tradin' fish. An' Tommy Mib below! We touched Smith's Arm next, sir. Come now, speak fair; did they have it there?"

"They're not rid of it yet," said Doctor Luke.

"Smith's Arm too!" Docks groaned.

"An' Harbour Rim," the skipper added.

"Noon t' noon at Harbour Rim," said Docks.

"And Highwater Cove," the doctor put in.

"Twenty quintal come aboard at Highwater Cove. I mind it well."

"They been dyin' like flies at Seldom Cove."

"Like flies?" Docks repeated, in a hoarse whisper. "Skipper Billy, sir, who—who died—like that?"

Skipper Billy drew his hand over his mouth. "One was a kid," he said, tugging at his moustache.

"My God!" Docks muttered. "One was a kid!"

In the pause—in the silence into which the far-off, wailing chorus of wind and sea crept unnoticed—Skipper Billy and Docks stared into each other's eyes.

"An' a kid died, too," said the skipper.

Again the low, wailing chorus of wind and sea, creeping into the silence. I saw the light in Skipper Billy's eyes sink from a flare to a glow; and I was glad of that.

"'Twas a cold, wet day, with the wind blowin' in from the sea, when we dropped anchor at Little Harbour Deep," Docks continued. "We always kep' the forecastle closed tight an' set a watch when we was in port; an' the forecastle was tight enough that day, but the second hand, whose watch it was, had t' help with the fish, for 'tis a poor harbour there, an' we was in haste t' get out. The folk was loafin' about the deck, fore an' aft, waitin' turns t' weigh fish or be served in the cabin. An' does you know what happened?" Docks asked, tensely. "Can't you see how 'twas? Believe me, sir, 'twas a cold, wet day, a bitter day; an' 'tis no wonder that one o' they folk went below t' warm hisself at the forecastle stove—went below, where poor Tommy Mib was lyin' sick. Skipper, sir," said Docks, with wide eyes, leaning over the table and letting his voice drop, "I seed that man come up—come tumblin' up like mad, sir, his face so white as paint. He'd seed Tommy Mib! An' he yelled, sir; an' Skipper Jim whirled about when he heard that word, an' I seed his lips draw away from his teeth.

"'Over the side, every man o' you!' sings he.

"But 'twas not the skipper's order—'twas that man's horrid cry that sent un over the side. They tumbled into the punts and pushed off. It made me shiver, sir, t' see the fright they was in.

"'Stand by t' get out o' this!' says the skipper.

"'Twas haul on this an' haul on that, an' 'twas heave away with the anchor, 'til we was well under weigh with all canvas spread. We beat out, takin' wonderful chances in the tickle, an' stood off t' the sou'east. That night, when we was well off, the cook says t' me that he thinks he've nerve enough t' be boiled in his own pot in a good cause, but he've no mind t' make a Fox's martyr of hisself for the likes o' Skipper Jim.

"'Cook,' says I, 'we'll leave this here ship at the next port.'

"'Docks,' says he, ''tis a clever thought.'

"'Twas Skipper Jim's trick at the wheel, an' I loafed aft t' have a word with un—keepin' well t' win'ward all the time; for he'd just come up from the forecastle.

"'Skipper Jim,' says I, 'we're found out.'

"'What's found out?' says he.

"'The case o' smallpox for'ard,' says I. 'What you goin' t' do about it?'

"'Do!' says he. 'What'll I do? Is it you, Docks, that's askin' me that? Well,' says he, 'Jagger an' me fixed that all up when I seed him there t' Wayfarer's Tickle. They's three ports above Harbour Deep, an' I'm goin' t' trade un all. 'Twill be a v'y'ge by that time. Then I'm goin' t' run the Sink or Swim back o' the islands in Seal Run. Which done, I'll wait for Tommy Mib t' make up his mind, one way or t' other. If he casts loose, I'll wait, decent as you like, 'til he's well under weigh, when I'll ballast un well an' heave un over. If he's goin' t' bide a spell longer in this world, I'll wait 'til he's steady on his pins. But, whatever, go or stay, I'll fit the schooner with a foretopmast, bark her canvas, paint her black, call her the Prodigal Son, an' lay a course for St. Johns. They's not a man on the docks will take the Prodigal Son, black hull, with topmast fore an' aft an' barked sails, inbound from the West Coast with a cargo o' fish—not a man, sir, will take the Prodigal Son for the white, single-topmast schooner Sink or Swim, up from the Labrador, reported with a case o' smallpox for'ard. For, look you, b'y,' says he, 'nobody knows me t' St. Johns.'

"'Skipper Jim,' says I, 'sure you isn't goin' t' put this fish on the market!'

"'Hut!' says he. 'Jagger an' me is worryin' about the price o' fish already.'

"We beat about offshore for three days, with the skipper laid up in the forecastle. Now what do you make o' that? The skipper laid up in the forecastle along o' Tommy Mib—an' Tommy took the way he was! Come, now, what do you make o' that?" We shook our heads, one and all; it was plain that the skipper, too, had been stricken. "Well, sir," Docks went on, "when Skipper Jim come up t' give the word for Rocky Harbour, he looked like a man risin' from the dead. 'Take her there,' says he, 'an' sing out t' me when you're runnin' in.' Then down he went agin; but, whatever, me an' the cook an' the second hand was willin' enough t' sail her t' Rocky Harbour without un, for 'twas in our minds t' cut an' run in the punt when the anchor was down. 'A scurvy trick,' says you, 't' leave old Skipper Jim an' Tommy Mib in the forecastle, all alone—an' Tommy took that way?' A scurvy trick!" cried Docks, his voice aquiver. "Ay, maybe! But you ain't been aboard no smallpox-ship. You ain't never knowed what 'tis t' lie in your bunk in the dark o' long nights shiverin' for fear you'll be took afore mornin'. An' maybe you hasn't seed a man took the way Tommy Mib was took—not took quite that way."

"Yes, I has, b'y," said Skipper Billy, quietly. "'Twas a kid that I seed."

"Was it, now?" Docks whispered, vacantly.

"A kid o' ten years," Skipper Billy replied.

"Ah, well," said Docks, "kids dies young. Whatever," he went on, hurriedly, "the old man come on deck when he was slippin' up the narrows t' the basin at Rocky Harbour.

"''Tis the last port I'll trade,' says he, 'for I'm sick, an' wantin' t' get home.'

"We was well up, with the canvas half off her, sailin' easy, on the lookout for a berth, when a punt put out from a stage up alongshore, an' come down with the water curlin' from her bows.

"'What's the meanin' o' that, Docks?' sings the skipper, pointin' t' the punt. 'They're goin' out o' the course t' keep t' win'ard.'

"'Skipper Jim,' says I, 'they knows us.'

"'Sink us,' says he, 'they does! They knows what we is an' what we got for'ard. Bring her to!' he sings out t' the man at the wheel.

"When we had the schooner up in the wind, the punt was bobbin' in the lop off the quarter.

"'What ship's that?' says the man in the bow.

"'Sink or Swim,' says the skipper.

"'You get out o' here, curse you!' says the man. 'We don't want you here. They's news o' you in every port o' the coast.'

"'I'll bide here 'til I'm ready t' go, sink you!' says the skipper.

"'Oh, no, you won't!' says the man. 'I've a gun or two that says you'll be t' sea agin in half an hour if the wind holds.'

"So when we was well out t' sea agin, the cook he says t' me that he've a wonderful fondness for a run ashore in a friendly port, but he've no mind t' be shot for a mad dog. 'An' we better bide aboard,' says the second hand; 'for 'tis like we'll be took for mad dogs wherever we tries t' land.' Down went the skipper, staggerin' sick; an' they wasn't a man among us would put a head in the forecastle t' ask for orders. So we beat about for a day or two in a foolish way; for, look you! havin' in mind them Rocky Harbour rifles, we didn't well know what t' do. Three days ago it blew up black an' frothy—a nor'east switcher, with a rippin' wind an' a sea o' mountains. 'Twas no place for a short-handed schooner. Believe me, sir, 'twas no place at all! 'Twas time t' run for harbour, come what might; so we asked the cook t' take charge. The cook says t' me that he'd rather be a cook than a skipper, an' a skipper than a ship's undertaker, but he've no objection t' turn his hand t' anything t' 'blige a party o' friends: which he'll do, says he, by takin' the schooner t' Broad Cove o' the Harbourless Shore, which is a bad shelter in a nor'east gale, says he, but the best he can manage.

"So we up an' laid a course for Broad Cove; an' they was three schooners harboured there when we run in. We anchored well outside o' them; an', sure, we thought the schooner was safe, for we knowed she'd ride out what was blowin', if it took so much as a week t' blow out. But it blowed harder—harder yet: a thick wind, squally, too, blowin' dead on shore, where the breakers was leapin' half-way up the cliff. By midnight the seas was smotherin' her, fore an' aft, an' she was tuggin' at her bow anchor chain like a fish at the line. Lord! many a time I thought she'd rip her nose off when a hill o' suddy water come atop of her with a thud an' a hiss.

"'She'll go ashore on them boilin' rocks,' says the cook.

"We was sittin' in the cabin—the cook an' the second hand an' me.

"''Tis wonderful cold,' says the second hand.

"'I'm chillin', meself,' says the cook.

"'Chillin'!' thinks I, havin' in mind the way poor Tommy Mib was took. 'Has you a pain in your back?' says I.

"They was shiverin' a wonderful lot, an' the cook was holdin' his head in his hands, just like Tommy Mib used t' do.

"'Ay, b'y,' says he.

"'Ay, b'y,' says the second hand.

"'Been drilled too hard o' late,' says the cook. 'We're all wore out along o' work an' worry.'

"I didn't wait for no more. 'H-m-m!' says I, 'I thinks I'll take a look outside.'

"It was dawn then. Lord! what a sulky dawn it was! All gray, an' drivin' like mad. The seas was rollin' in, with a frothy wind-lop atop o' them. They'd lift us, smother us, drop us, toss the schooners ridin' in our lee, an' go t' smash on the big, black rocks ashore. Lord! how they pulled at the old Sink or Swim! 'Twas like as if they wanted her bad for what she done. Seems t' me the Lord God A'mighty must 'a' knowed what He was about. Seems to me the Lord God A'mighty said t' Hisself: 'Skipper Jim,' says He, 'I'm through usin' you. I've done all the damage I want done along o' you. I've sent some o' the wicked t' beds they chose t' lie on; an' the good folk—all the good folk an' little kids I couldn't wait no longer for, I loved un so—I've took up here. Ay, Jim,' says the Lord God A'mighty, 'I'm through usin' you; an' I got t' get rid o' the old Sink or Swim. I'm sorry for the cook an' the second hand an' poor Tommy Mib,' says He, 'wonderful sorry; but I can't run My world no other way. An' when you comes t' think it over,' says He, 'you'll find 'tis the best thing that could happen t' they, for they're took most wonderful bad.' Oh ay," said Docks, with a gentle smile, "the Lord God A'mighty knowed what He was about.

"I went for'ard t' have a look at the chain. Skipper Jim hisself was there, watchin' it close.

"'She's draggin',' says he. But I wouldn't 'a' knowed that voice for Skipper Jim's—'twas so hollow and breathless. 'She's draggin',' says he. 'Let her drag. They's a better anchorage in there a bit. She'll take the bottom agin afore she strikes them craft.'

"We was draggin' fast—bearin' straight down on the craft inside. They was a trader an' two Labrador fishin'-craft. The handiest was a fishin' boat, bound home with the summer's cotch, an' crowded with men, women, an' kids. We took the bottom an' held fast within thirty fathom of her bow. I could see the folk on deck—see un plain as I sees you—hands an' lips an' eyes. They was swarmin' fore an' aft like a lot o' scared seal—wavin' their arms, shakin' their fists, jabberin', leapin' about in the wash o' the seas that broke over the bows.

"'Docks,' says the skipper, 'what's the matter with they folk, anyhow? We isn't draggin', is we?' says he, half cryin'. 'We isn't hurtin' they, is we?'

"An old man—'tis like he was skipper o' the craft—come runnin' for'ard, with half a dozen young fellows in his wake. 'Sheer off!' sings the old one. He jabbered a bit more, all the while wavin' us off, but a squall o' wind carried it all away. 'We'll shoot you like dogs an you don't!' says one o' the young ones; an' at that I felt wonderful mean an' wicked an' sorry. Back aft they went. There they talked an' talked; an' as they talked they pointed—pointed t' the breakers that was boilin' over the black rocks; pointed t' the spumey sea an' t' the low, ragged clouds drivin' across it; pointed t' the Sink or Swim. Then the skipper took the wheel, an' the crew run for'ard t' the windlass an' jib sheets.

"'Skipper, sir,' says I, 'they're goin' t' slip anchor an' run!'

"'Ay,' says Skipper Jim, 'they knows us, b'y! They knows the Sink or Swim. We lies t' win'ard, an' they're feared o' the smallpox. They'll risk that craft—women an' kids an' all—t' get away. They isn't a craft afloat can beat t' sea in this here gale. They'll founder, lad, or they'll drive on the rocks an' loss themselves, all hands. 'Tis an evil day for this poor old schooner, Docks,' says he, with a sob, 'that men'll risk the lives o' kids an' women t' get away from her; an' 'tis an evil day for my crew.' With that he climbed on the rail, cotched the foremast shrouds with one hand, put the other to his mouth, an' sung out: 'Ahoy, you! Bide where you is! Bide where you is!' Then he jumped down; an' he says t' me, 'tween gasps, for the leap an' shout had taken all the breath out of un, 'Docks,' says he, 'they's only one thing for a man t' do in a case like this. Get the jib up, b'y. I'm goin' aft t' the wheel. Let the anchor chain run out when you sees me wave my hand. See, lad,' says he, pointin' t' leeward, 'they're waitin', aboard that fishin' craft, t' see what we'll do. We'll show un that we're men! Jagger be damned,' says he; 'we'll show un that we're men! Call the hands,' says he; 'but leave Tommy Mib lie quiet in his bunk,' says he, 'for he's dead.'

"'Skipper Jim,' says I, lookin' in his blood-red eyes, an' then t' the breakers, 'what you goin' t' do?'

"'Beach her,' says he.

"'Is you gone an' forgot,' says I, 'about Jagger?'

"'Never you mind about Jagger, Docks,' says he. 'I'll see him,' says he, 'later. Call the hands,' says he, 'an' we'll wreck her like men!'"

Docks covered his face with his hands. Place was once more given to the noises of the gale. He looked up—broken, listless; possessed again by the mood of that time.

"An' what did you say, lad?" Skipper Billy whispered.

"I hadn't no objection," sighed the lad.

The answer was sufficient.

* * * * *

"So I called the hands," Docks went on. "An' when the second hand cotched sight o' the rocks we was bound for, he went mad, an' tumbled over the taffrail; an' the cook was so weak a lurch o' the ship flung him after the second hand afore we reached the breakers. I never seed Skipper Jim no more; nor the cook, nor the second hand, nor poor Tommy Mib. But I'm glad the Lord God A'mighty give Jim the chance t' die right, though he'd lived wrong. Oh, ay! I'm fair glad the good Lord done that. The Labradormen give us a cheer when the chain went rattlin' over an' the Sink or Swim gathered way—a cheer, sir, that beat its way agin the wind—God bless them!—an' made me feel that in the end I was a man agin. She went t' pieces when she struck," he added, as if in afterthought; "but I'm something of a hand at swimmin', an' I got ashore on a bit o' spar. An' then I come down the coast 'til I found you lyin' here in the lee o' Saul's Island." After a pause, he said hoarsely, to Skipper Billy: "They had the smallpox at Tops'l Cove, says you? They got it yet at Smith's Arm? At Harbour Rim an' Highwater Cove they been dyin'? How did they die at Seldom Cove? Like flies, says you? An' one was a kid?"

"My kid," said Skipper Billy, quietly still.

"My God!" cried Docks. "His kid! How does that there song go? What about they lakes o' fire? Wasn't it,

"'They's lakes o' fire in hell t' sail for such as Skipper Jim!'

you sung? Lord! sir, I'm thinkin' I'll have t' ship along o' Skipper Jim once more!"

"No, no, lad!" cried Skipper Billy, speaking from the heart. "For you was willin' t' die right. But God help Jagger on the mornin' o' the Judgment Day! I'll be waitin' at the foot o' the throne o' God t' charge un with the death o' my wee kid!"

Doctor Luke sat there frowning.



XXVI

DECOYED

Despite Skipper Billy's anxious, laughing protest that 'twas not yet fit weather to be at sea, the doctor next day ordered the sail set: for, as he said, he was all of a maddening itch to be about certain business, of a professional and official turn, at our harbour and Wayfarer's Tickle, and could no longer wait the pleasure of a damned obstinate nor'east gale—a shocking way to put it, indeed, but vastly amusing when uttered with a fleeting twinkle of the eye: vastly convincing, too, followed by a snap of the teeth and the gleam of some high, heroic purpose. So we managed to get the able little Greased Lightning into the thick of it—merrily into the howl and gray frown of that ill-minded sea—and, though wind and sea, taking themselves seriously, conspired to smother her, we made jolly reaches to the nor'ard, albeit under double reefs, and came that night to Poor Luck Harbour, where the doctor's sloop was waiting. There we bade good-bye to the mood-stricken Docks, and a short farewell to Skipper Billy, who must return into the service of the Government doctors from St. Johns, now, at last, active in the smallpox ports. And next morning, the wind having somewhat abated in the night, the doctor and I set sail for our harbour, where, two days later, with the gale promising to renew itself, we dropped anchor: my dear sister, who had kept watch from her window, now waiting on my father's wharf.

* * * * *

It seemed to me then—and with utmost conviction I uttered the feeling abroad, the while perceiving no public amusement—that the powers of doctors were fair witchlike: for no sooner had my sweet sister swallowed the first draught our doctor mixed—nay, no sooner had it been offered her in the silver spoon, and by the doctor, himself—than her soft cheek turned the red of health, and her dimples, which of late had been expressionless, invited kisses in a fashion the most compelling, so that a man of mere human parts would swiftly take them, though he were next moment hanged for it. I marvel, indeed, that Doctor Luke could resist them; but resist he did: as I know, for, what with lurking and peeping (my heart being anxiously enlisted), I took pains to discover the fact, and was in no slight degree distressed by it. For dimples were made for kissing—else for what?—and should never go unsatisfied; they are so frank in pleading that 'twould be sheer outrage for the lips of men to feel no mad desire: which, thank God! seldom happens. But, then, what concern have I, in these days, with the identical follies of dimples and kissing?

"'Tis a wonderful clever doctor," said I to my sister, my glance fixed in amazement on her glowing cheeks, "that we got in Doctor Luke."

"Ah, yes!" she sighed: but so demure that 'twas not painful to hear it.

"An', ecod!" I declared, "'tis a wonderful clever medicine that he've been givin' you."

"Ecod! Davy Roth," she mocked, a sad little laugh in her eyes, "an' how," said she, "did you manage to find it out?"

"Bessie!" cried I, in horror. "Do you stop that swearin'! For an you don't," I threatened, "I'll give you——"

"Hut!" she flouted. "'Tis your own word."

"Then," I retorted, "I'll never say it again. Ecod! but I won't."

She pinched my cheek.

"An' I'm wonderin'," I sighed, reverting to the original train of thought, which was ever a bothersome puzzle, "how he can keep from kissin' you when he puts the spoon in your mouth. Sure," said I, "he've such a wonderful good chance t' do it!"

It may have been what I said; it may have been a familiar footfall in the hall: at any rate, my sister fled in great confusion. And, pursuing heartily, I caught her in her room before she closed the door, but retreated in haste, for she was already crying on the bed. Whereupon, I gave up the puzzle of love, once and for all; and, as I sought the windy day, I was established in the determination by a glimpse of the doctor, sitting vacant as an imbecile in the room where my sister and I had been: whom I left to his own tragedy, myself being wearied out of patience by it.

"The maid that turns me mad," was my benighted reflection, as I climbed the Watchman to take a look at the weather, "will be a wonderful clever hand."

* * * * *

Unhappily, there had been no indictable offense in Jagger's connection with the horrid crimes of the Sink or Swim (as the doctor said with a wry face): for Docks would be but a poor witness in a court of law at St. Johns' knowing nothing of his own knowledge, but only by hearsay; and the bones of Skipper Jim already lay stripped and white in the waters of the Harbourless Shore. But, meantime, the doctor kept watch for opportunity to send frank warning to the man of Wayfarer's Tickle; and, soon, chance offered by way of the schooner Bound Down, Skipper Immerly Swat, whom the doctor charged, with a grim little grin, to inform the evil fellow that he was to be put in jail, out of hand, when first he failed to walk warily: a message to which Jagger returned (by the skipper of the Never Say Die) an answer of the sauciest—so saucy, indeed, that the doctor did not repeat it, but flushed and kept silent. And now the coast knew of the open war; and great tales came to us of Jagger's laughter and loose-mouthed boasting—of his hate and ridicule and defiant cursing: so that the doctor wisely conceived him to be upon the verge of some cowardly panic. But the doctor went about his usual work, healing the sick, quietly keeping the helm of our business, as though nothing had occurred: and grimly waited for the inevitable hour.

Jonas Jutt, of Topmast Tickle, with whom we had passed a Christmas Eve—the father of Martha and Jimmie and Sammy Jutt—came by stealth to our harbour to speak a word with the doctor. "Doctor Luke," said he, between his teeth, "I'm this year in service t' Jagger o' Wayfarer's Tickle; an' I've heared tell o' the quarrel atween you; an'...."

"Yes?" the doctor inquired.

"I've took sides."

"I rather think," the doctor observed, "that you can tell me something I very much want to know."

"I've no wish, God knows!" Jonas continued, with deep feeling, "t' betray my master. But you—you, zur—cured my child, an' I'm wantin' t' do you a service."

"I think you can."

"I knows I can! I know—I knows—that which will put Jagger t' makin' brooms in the jail t' St. Johns."

"Ah!" the doctor drawled. "I wish," said he, "that I knew that."

"I knows," Jonas pursued, doggedly, though it went against the grain, "that last week he wrecked the Jessie Dodd on the Ragged Edge at Wayfarer's Tickle. I knows that she was insured for her value and fifteen hundred quintal o' Labrador fish. I knows that they wasn't a fish aboard. I knows that every fish is safe stowed in Jagger's stores. I knows that the schooner lies near afloat at high tide. I knows that she'll go t' pieces in the winter gales. I knows——"

The doctor lifted his hand. He was broadly smiling. "You have told me," said he, "quite enough. Go back to Wayfarer's Tickle. Leave me," he added, "to see that Jagger learns the worthy trade of broom-making. You have done me—great service."

"Ah, but," cried Jonas, gripping the doctor's hand, "you cured my little Sammy!"

The doctor mused. "It may be difficult," he said, by and by, "to fix this wreck upon Jagger."

"Hist!" Jonas replied, stepping near. "The skipper o' the Jessie Dodd," he whispered, pointedly, solemnly closing one eye, "is wonderful weak in the knees."

Doctor and I went then in the sloop to Wayfarer's Tickle (the wind favouring us); and there we found the handsome Jessie Dodd lying bedraggled and disconsolate on the Ragged Edge, within the harbour: slightly listed, but afloat aft, and swinging with the gentle lift and fall of the water. We boarded her, sad at heart that a craft so lovely should come to a pass like this; and 'twas at once plain to us sailor-men that 'twas a case of ugly abandonment, if not of barratry—plain, indeed, to such as knew the man, that in conspiracy with the skipper Jagger had caused the wreck of the schooner, counting upon the isolation of the place, the lateness of the season, the simplicity of the folk, the awe in which they held him—upon all this to conceal the crime: as often happens on our far-off coast. So we took the skipper into custody (and this with a high hand) unknown to Jagger—got him, soon, safe into the sloop: so cowed and undone by the doctor's manner that he miserably whined for chance to turn Queen's evidence in our behalf. 'Twas very sad—nauseating, too: so that one wished to stop the white, writhing lips with a hearty buffet; for rascals should be strong, lest their pitiful complaints distress the hearts of honest men, who have not deserved the cruel punishment.

Jagger came waddling down to the landing, his great dog at his heels. "What you doin'," he demanded, scowling like a thunder-storm, "with that man?"

"I next call your attention," the doctor answered, with a smile of the most engaging sort, like a showman once I saw in the South, "to the most be-witching exhibit in this vast concourse of wonders. We have here—don't crowd, if you please—we have here the skipper of the schooner Jessie Dodd, cast away on the Ragged Edge at Wayfarer's Tickle. He is—and I direct your particular attention to the astounding fact—under arrest; being taken by a magistrate duly appointed by the authorities at St Johns. Observe, if you will, his—ah—rather abject condition. Mark his penitent air. Conceive, if you can, the—ah—ardour with which he will betray——"

Jagger turned on his heel—and went wearily away. And I have never forgiven the doctor his light manner upon this wretched occasion: for it seems to me (but I am not sure of it) that rascals, also, are entitled to the usual courtesy. At any rate, in uttermost despair we paid for the lack of it.

* * * * *

I copy, now, from the deposition of Allworthy Grubb, master of the schooner Jessie Dodd, Falmouth, England, as taken that night at our harbour: "The 'Jessie Dodd' was chartered by Thomas Jagger, doing business at Wayfarer's Tickle, to load fish for across.... I do hereby make a voluntary statement, with my own free will, and without any inducement whatever.... Thomas Jagger offered me, if I would put the 'Jessie Dodd' ashore, he would give me half the profits realized on ship and cargo. This he promised me on a Sunday morning in his fish stage opposite to where the ship was put ashore. After the ship was put ashore he no longer discussed about the money I was to receive.... Two days before the 'Jessie Dodd' was put ashore I broke the wheel chain and tied the links with spunyarn. I showed the broken links to Mr. Jagger. The day we were starting there was rum served out to the crew. Mr. Jagger supplied it. When the vessel started, nearly all the crew were drunk. I had the wheel. About five minutes after she started I cut the spunyarn. The vessel began to go on the rocks. One of the crew shouted, 'Hard-a-starboard!' I shouted that the port wheel chain was broken. Then the vessel went ashore.... Mr. Jagger sent a kettle of rum aboard, which I had served to the crew. No attempt was made to get the vessel off.... When I saw Mr. Jagger he told me I was a seven kinds of a fool for putting her ashore where I did. He said it would be all right, anyhow. He said they were all afraid of him. He said no one would give it away.... I am guilty of putting the 'Jessie Dodd' ashore, for which I am extremely sorry of being prompted to do so by Thomas Jagger, and to be so sadly led away into such depravity. Had it not been for such an irreproachable character, which I have held previous to this dreadful act, ten minutes after the occurrence I would have given myself up. Not one hour since but what I have repented bitterly...." I present this that the doctor may not appear unfairly to have initiated a prosecution against his enemy: though that were a blessing to our coast.

"Davy," said the doctor, briskily, when the writing was done, "I must leave Captain Grubb to your hospitality for a time. It will be necessary for me to go south to the cable station at Chateau. The support of Lloyds—since Jagger has influence at St. Johns—will be invaluable in this case."

He set sail in the sloop next day.

It was now late in the fall of the year. Young slob ice was forming by night in the quiet places of the harbour. The shiver of winter was everywhere abroad.... For a week the weather continued ominous—with never a glint of sunshine to gladden us. Drear weather, treacherous—promising grief and pain. Off shore, the schooners of the great fleet crept by day to the s'uth'ard, harbouring by night: taking quick advantage of the variable winds, as chance offered. 'Twas thus that the doctor returned to our harbour; and there he was held, from day to day, by vicious winds, which the little sloop could not carry, by great, black seas, which she could not ride.... One day, being ill at ease, we went to the Watchman, that we might descry the first favourable sign. In the open, the wind was still to the north of east—but wildly capricious: blowing hither and thither; falling, too, to a sigh, rising, all at once, to a roaring gust, which tore at the whisps of grass and fairly sucked the breath from one's body. Overhead, the sky was low and tumultuous; great banks of black cloud, flecked with gray and white—ragged masses—went flying inland, as in a panic. There was no quiet light in the east, no clean air between; 'twas everywhere thick—everywhere sullen.... We left the Watchman downcast—each, too, preoccupied. In my heart was the heavy feeling that some sad thing was about to befall us....

* * * * *

I must tell, now, that, before the smallpox came to Poor Luck Harbour, the doctor had chartered the thirty-ton Trap and Seine for our business: with which Skipper Tommy Lovejoy and the twins, with four men of our harbour, had subsequently gone north to Kidalik, where the fishing was reported good beyond dreams. 'Twas time for the schooner to be home. She was long overdue; and in great anxiety we awaited her return or news of her misfortune: the like of which often happens on our coast, where news proceeds only by word of mouth. 'Twas in part in hope of catching sight of her barked topsail that we had gone to the Watchman. But at that moment the Trap and Seine lay snug at anchor in Wayfarer's Tickle: there delayed for more civil weather in which to attempt the passage of the Bay, for she was low in the water with her weight of fish, and Skipper Tommy had a mind to preserve his good fortune against misadventure. And, next day, the wind being still unfavourable, he had Timmie row him ashore, that he might pass an hour in talk with the men on Jagger's wharf: for there was nothing better to do, and the wreck of the Jessie Dodd was food of the choicest for water-side gossip. To him, by and by, came Jagger's clerk: begging that the Trap and Seine might be got under weigh for our harbour within the hour, for Jagger lay near death (having been taken in the night) and sorely needed the doctor, lest he die.

"Die!" cried Skipper Tommy, much distressed. "That's fair awful. Poor man! So sick as that?"

"Ay," the clerk replied, with a sharp little look into Skipper Tommy's mild eyes, "he'll die."

"Ecod!" the skipper declared. "'Twill make the doctor sad t' know it!"

Skipper Tommy remembers that the clerk turned away, as if, for some strange reason, to get command of himself.

"That he will," said the clerk.

"'Tis awful!" the skipper repeated. "I'll get the schooner t' sea this minute. She's wonderful low in the water," he mused, pulling at his nose; "but I'm thinkin' the doctor would rather save a life than get a cargo o' green fish t' harbour."

"Dying, tell him," the clerk urged, smoothing his mouth with a lean hand. "Dying—and in terror of hell."

"Afeared o' hell?"

"Gone mad with fear of damnation."

Skipper Tommy raised his hands. "That's awful!" he muttered, with a sad shake of the head. "Tell that poor man the doctor will come. Tell un, oh, tell un," he added, wringing his hands, "not t' be afeared o' hell!"

"Yes, yes!" the clerk exclaimed, impatiently. "Don't forget the message. Jagger lies sick, and dying, and begging for help."

Skipper Tommy made haste to the small boat, the while raising a cry for Timmie, who had gone about his own pleasure, the Lord knew where! And Timmie ran down the path, as fast as his sea-boots would go: but was intercepted by Jonas Jutt, who drew him into the lower fish-stage, as though in fear of observation, and there whispered the circumstances of the departure of the Trap and Seine.

"But do you tell your father," he went on, "that Jagger's not sick."

"Not sick?" cried Timmie, under his breath.

"Tell your father that I heared Jagger say he'd prove the doctor a coward or drown him."

Timmie laughed.

"Tell un," Jonas whispered, speaking in haste and great excitement, "that Jagger's as hearty drunk as ever he was—loaded t' the gunwale with rum an' hate—in dread o' the trade o' broom-makin'—desperate t' get clear o' the business o' the Jessie Dodd. Tell un he wants t' drown the doctor atween your harbour an' Wayfarer's Tickle. Tell un t' give no heed t' the message. Tell un t'——"

"Oh, Lard!" Timmie gurgled, in a spasm of delight.

"Tell un t' have the doctor stay at home 'til the weather lifts. Tell un——"

In response to an urgent call from the skipper, who was waiting at the small-boat, Timmie ran out. As he stumbled down the path, emitting guffaws and delicious chuckles, he conceived—most unhappily for us all—an infinitely humorous plan, which would still give him the delight of a rough passage to our harbour: for Timmie loved a wet deck and a reeling beat to windward, under a low, driving sky, with the night coming down, as few lads do. Inform the skipper? Not Timmie! Nor would he tell even Jacky. He would disclose the plot at a more dramatic moment. When the beat was over—when the schooner had made harbour—when the anchor was down—when the message was delivered—in the thick of the outcry of protest against the doctor's high determination to venture upon the errand of mercy—then Timmie Lovejoy, the dramatic opportunity having come, would, with proper regard for his own importance, make the astounding revelation. It would be quite thrilling (he thought); moreover, it would be a masterly joke on his father, who took vast delight in such things.

"The wind's veerin' t' the s'uth'ard," said the skipper, anxiously, while they put a double reef in the mainsail. "'Twill be a rough time across."

"Hut! dad," Timmie answered. "Sure, you can make harbour."

"Ecod!" Jacky added, with a grin. "You're the man t' do it, dad—you're the man t' drive her!"

"Well, lads," the flattered skipper admitted, resting from the wrestle with the obstinate sail, and giving his nose a pleased sort of tweak, "I isn't sayin' I'm not."

So, low as she was—sunk with the load in her hold and the gear and casks and what-not on her deck—they took the Trap and Seine into the gale. And she made brave weather of it—holding her own stoutly, cheerily shaking the frothy water from her bows: though 'twas an unfair task to put her to. Skipper Tommy put the first hand at the mainsail halliards, the second hand at the foresail, with orders to cut away at the lift of his hand, lest the vessel get on her beam's ends and capsize. 'Twas thus that they drove her into the wind—stout hearts and stout timber: no wavering or weak complaint, whatever the wind and sea. But night caught them off our harbour—deep night: with the headlands near lost in the black sky; no more than the looming, changing shadow of the hills and the intermittent flash of breakers to guide the way. They were now beating along shore, close to Long Cove of the mainland, which must then have lain placid in the lee of Naked Point. At the cry of "Hard-a-lee!"—sung out in terror when the breakers were fair under the bow—the ship came about and fell off towards the open sea. Then came three great waves; they broke over the bow—swept the schooner, stem to stern, the deck litter going off in a rush of white water. The first wrenched Jacky from his handhold; but Skipper Tommy, standing astern, caught him by the collar as the lad went over the taffrail. Came, then, with the second wave, Timmie, whom, also, the skipper caught. But 'twas beyond the old man's power to lift both to the deck: nor could he cry for help, nor choose whom to drop, loving them alike; but desperately clung to both until the rush of the third wave tore one away.

It was Timmie.

* * * * *

Skipper Tommy Lovejoy, making into our harbour, by way of the Gate, in the depths of that wild night—poor old Skipper Tommy, blind and broken by grief—ran his loaded schooner into the Trap and wrecked her on the Seven Murderers, where she went to pieces on the unfeeling rocks. But we managed to get the crew ashore, and no man lost his life at that time. And Skipper Tommy, sitting bowed in my father's house, told us in a dull, slow way—made tragic, from time to time, by the sweet light in his eye, by the flitting shadow of a smile—told us, thus, that Jagger of Wayfarer's Tickle lay at the point of death, in fear of hell, crying for the help of his enemy: and then put his arm about Jacky, and went with him to the Rat Hole, there to bury his sorrow, that it might not distress us the more, who sorrowed, also.



XXVII

The DAY of The DOG

I was awakened at dawn. 'Twas by a gentle touch of the doctor's hand. "Is it you, zur?" I asked, starting from sad dreams.

"Hush!" he whispered. "'Tis I, Davy."

I listened to the roar of the gale—my sleepy senses immediately aroused by the noise of wind and sleet. The gathered rage was loosed, at last.

"'Tis a bitter night," I said.

"The day is breaking."

He sat down beside me, gravely silent; and he put his arm around me.

"You isn't goin'?" I pleaded.

"Yes."

I had grown to know his duty. 'Twas all plain to me. I would not have held him from it, lest I come to love him less.

"Ay," I moaned, gripping his hand, "you're goin'!"

"Yes," he said.

We sat for a moment without speaking. The gale went whipping past—driving madly through the breaking day: a great rush of black, angry weather. 'Twas dim in the room. I could not see his face—but felt his arm warm about me: and wished it might continue there, and that I might fall asleep, serene in all that clamour, sure that I might find it there on waking, or seek it once again, when sore need came. And I thought, even then, that the Lord had been kind to us: in that this man had come sweetly into our poor lives, if but for a time.

"You isn't goin' alone, is you?"

"No. Skipper Tommy is coming to sail the sloop."

Again—and fearsomely—the gale intruded upon us. There was a swish of wind, rising to a long, mad shriek—the roar of rain on the roof—the rattle of windows—the creaking of the timbers of our house. I trembled to hear it.

"Oh, doctor!" I moaned.

"Hush!" he said.

The squall subsided. Rain fell in a monotonous patter. Light crept into the room.

"Davy!"

"Ay, zur?"

"I'm going, now."

"Is you?"

He drew me very close. "I've come to say good-bye," he said. My head sank in great misgiving against him. I could not say one word. "And you know, lad," he continued, "that I love your sister. Tell her, when I am gone, that I love her. Tell her——"

He paused. "An' what, zur," I asked, "shall I tell my sister for you?"

"Tell her—that I love her. No!" he cried. "'Tis not that. Tell her——"

"Ay?"

"That I loved her!"

"Hist!" I whispered, not myself disquieted by this significant change of form. "She's stirrin' in her room."

It may be that the doctor loved my sister through me—that I found some strange place in his great love for her, to which I had no title, but was most glad to have. For, then, in the sheltering half-light, he lifted me from my bed—crushed me against his breast—held me there, whispering messages I could not hear—and gently laid me down again, and went in haste away. And I dressed in haste: but fumbled at all the buttons, nor could quickly lay hands on my clothes, which were scattered everywhere, by my sad habit; so that, at last, when I was clad for the weather, and had come to my father's wharf, the sloop was cast off. Skipper Tommy sat in the stern, his face grimly set towards North Tickle and the hungry sea beyond: nor did he turn to look at me. But the doctor waved his hand—and laughed a new farewell.

* * * * *

I did not go to the hills—because I had no heart for that (and had no wish to tell my sister what might be seen from there): but sat grieving on a big box, in the lee of the shop, drumming a melancholy refrain with my heels. And there I sat while the sad light of day spread over the rocky world; and, by and by, the men came out of the cottages—and they went to the hills of God's Warning, as I knew they would—and came back to the wharf to gossip: but in my presence were silent concerning what they had seen at sea, so that, when I went up to our house, I did not know what the sloop was making of the gale. And when I crossed the threshold, 'twas to a vast surprise: for my breakfast was set on a narrow corner of the kitchen table (and had turned cold); and the whole house was in an amazing state of dust and litter and unseasonable confusion—the rugs lifted, the tables and chairs awry, the maids wielding brooms with utmost vigour: a comfortless prospect, indeed, but not foreign to my sister's way at troublous times, as I knew. So I ate my breakfast, and that heartily (being a boy); and then sought my sister, whom I found tenderly dusting in my mother's room.

"'Tis queer weather, Bessie," said I, in gentle reproof, "for cleanin' house."

She puckered her brow—a sad little frown: but sweet, as well, for, downcast or gay, my sister could be naught else, did she try it.

"Is you thinkin' so, Davy?" she asked, pulling idly at her dust-rag. "Ah, well!" she sighed.

"Why," I exclaimed, "'tis the queerest I ever knowed!"

"I been thinkin'," she mused, "that I'd get the house tidied up—while the doctor's away."

"Oh, was you?"

"Ay," she said, looking up; "for he've such a wonderful distaste for dust an' confusion. An' I'll have the house all in order," she added, with a wan smile, "when he gets back."

'Tis the way of women to hope; but that my clever sister should thus count sure that which lay in grave doubt—admitting no uncertainty—was beyond my understanding.

"Does you think," she asked, looking away, "that he will be back"—she hesitated—"the morrow?"

I did not deign to reply.

"May be," she muttered, "the day after."

'Twas hard to believe it of her. "Bessie," I began, ignoring her folly, "afore the doctor went, he left a message for you."

Her hands went swiftly to her bosom. "For me?" she whispered. "Ah, tell me, Davy!"

"I'm just about t' tell," said I, testily. "But, sure, 'tis nothin' t' put you in a state. When he come t' my room," I proceeded, "at dawn, t' say good-bye, he left a message. 'Tell her,' said he, 'that I love her.'"

It seemed to me, then, that she suffered—that she felt some glorious agony: of which, as I thought, lads could know nothing. And I wondered why.

"That he loves me!" she murmured.

"No," said I. "'Tell her not that,' said he," I went on. "'Tell her that I loved her.'"

"Not that!" she cried. "'Twas that he loves me—not that he loved me!"

"'Twas that he loved you."

"Oh, no!"

"I got it right."

"Ah, then," she cried, in despair, "he've no hope o' comin' back! Oh," she moaned, clasping her hands, "if only I had——"

But she sighed—and turned again to her womanly task; and I left her tenderly caring for my mother's old room. And when, at midday, I came up from the wharf, I found the house restored to order and quiet: my sister sitting composed in my mother's place, smiling a welcome across the table, as my mother used to do. And I kissed her—for I loved her!

* * * * *

It blew up bitter cold—the wind rising: the sea turned white with froth. 'Twas a solemn day—like a sad Sunday, when a man lies dead in the harbour. No work was done—no voice was lifted boisterously—no child was out of doors: but all clung peevishly to their mothers' skirts. The men on the wharf—speculating in low, anxious voices—with darkened eyes watched the tattered sky: the rushing, sombre clouds, still in a panic fleeing to the wilderness. They said the sloop would not outlive the gale. They said 'twas a glorious death that the doctor and Skipper Thomas Lovejoy had died; thus to depart in the high endeavour to succour an enemy—but shed no tears: for 'tis not the way of our folk to do it.... Rain turned to sleet—sleet to black fog. The smell of winter was in the air. There was a feeling of snow abroad.... Then came the snow—warning flakes, driving strangely through the mist, where no snow should have been. Our folk cowered—not knowing what they feared: but by instinct perceiving a sudden change of season, for which they were not ready; and were disquieted....

What a rush of feeling and things done—what rage and impulsive deeds—came then! The days are not remembered—but lie hid in a mist, as I write.... Timmie Lovejoy crawled into our harbour in the dusk of that day: having gone ashore at Long Cove with the deck-litter of the Trap and Seine; which surprised us not at all, for we are used to such things. And when he gave us the message (having now, God knows! a tragic opportunity, but forgetting that)—when he sobbed that Jagger, being in sound health, would prove the doctor a coward or drown him—we determined to go forthwith by the coast rocks to Wayfarer's Tickle to punish Jagger in some way for the thing he had done. And when I went up the path to tell my poor sister of the villany practiced upon the doctor, designed to compass his very death—ah! 'tis dreadful to recall it—when I went up the path, my mother's last prayer pleading in my soul, the whitening world was all turned red; and my wish was that, some day, I might take my enemy by the throat, whereat I would tear with my naked fingers, until my hands were warm with blood.... But it came on to snow; and for two days and nights snow fell, the wind blowing mightily: so that no man could well move from his own house. And when the wind went down, and the day dawned clear again, we put the dogs to my father's komatik and set out for Wayfarer's Tickle: whence Jagger had that morning fled, as Jonas Jutt told us.

"Gone!" cried Tom Tot.

"T' the s'uth'ard with the dogs. He's bound t' the Straits Shore t' get the last coastal boat t' Bay o' Islands."

"Gone!" we repeated, blankly.

"Ay—but ten hours gone. In mad haste—alone—ill provisioned—fleein' in terror.... He sat on the hills—sat there like an old crag—in the rain an' wind—waitin' for the doctor's sloop. 'There she is, Jutt!' says he. 'No,' says I. 'Thank God, Jagger, that's a schooner, reefed down an' runnin' for harbour!' ... 'There she is!' says he. 'No,' says I. 'Thank God, that's the same schooner, makin' heavy weather o' the gale!' ... 'There she is, Jutt!' says he. 'Ay,' says I, 'God help her, that's the doctor's sloop! They've wrecked the Trap an' Seine'.... An' there he sat, watchin', with his chin on his hand, 'til the doctor's sloop went over, an' the fog drifted over the sea where she had been.... An' then he went home; an' no man seed un agin 'til he called for the dogs. An' he went away—in haste—alone—like a man gone mad...."

The lean-handed clerk broke in. He was blue about the lips—his eyes sunk in shadowy pits—and he was shivering.

"'Timmons,' says he to me," he chattered, "'I'm going home. I done wrong,' says he. 'They'll kill me for this.'"

"An' when he got the dogs in the traces," Jonas proceeded, "I seed he wasn't ready for no long journey. 'Good Lord, Jagger,' says I, 'you isn't got no grub for the dogs!' 'Dogs!' says he. 'I'll feed the dogs with me whip.' 'Jagger,' says I, 'don't you try it. They won't eat a whip. They can't live on it.' 'Never you fear,' says he. 'I'll feed them ugly brutes when they gets me t' Cape Charles Harbour.' 'Jagger,' says I, 'you better look out they don't feed theirselves afore they gets you there. You got a ugly leader,' says I, 'in that red-eyed brute.' 'Him?' says he. 'Oh, I got him broke!' But he didn't have——"

"And with that," said the clerk, "off he put."

"Men," cried Tom Tot, looking about upon our group, "we'll cotch un yet!"

So we set out in pursuit of Jagger of Wayfarer's Tickle, who had fled over the hills—I laugh to think of it—with an ugly, red-eyed leader, to be fed with a whip: which dog I knew.... No snow fell. The days were clear—the nights moonlit. Bitter cold continued. We followed a plain track—sleeping by night where the quarry had slept.... Day after day we pushed on: with no mercy on the complaining dogs—plunging through the drifts, whipping the team up the steeper hills, speeding when the going lay smooth before us.... By and by we drew near. Here and there the snow was significantly trampled. There were signs of confusion and cross purposes. The man was desperately fighting his dogs.... One night, the dogs were strangely restless—sniffing the air, sleepless, howling; nor could we beat them to their beds in the snow: they were like wolves. And next day—being then two hours after dawn—we saw before us a bloody patch of snow: whereupon Tom Tot cried out in horror.

"Oh, dear God!" he muttered, turning with a gray face. "They've eat him up!"

Then—forgetting the old vow—he laughed.

* * * * *

... And this was true. They had eaten him up. The snow was all trampled and gory. They had eaten him up. Among the tatters of his garments, I found a hand; and I knew that hand for the hand of Jagger of Wayfarer's Tickle.... They had turned wolves—they had eaten him up. From far off—the crest of a desolate hill—there came a long howl. I looked towards that place. A great dog appeared—and fled. I wondered if the dog I knew had had his day. I wondered if the first grip had been upon the throat....

* * * * *

When we came again to our harbour—came close again to the grief we had in rage and swift action forgot—when, from the inland hills, we caught sight of the basin of black water, and the cottages, snuggled by the white water-side—we were amazed to discover a schooner lying at anchor off my father's wharf: the wreck of a craft, her topmast hanging, her cabin stove in, her jib-boom broke off short. But this amazement—this vast astonishment—was poor surprise as compared with the shock I got when I entered my father's house. For, there—new groomed and placid—sat the doctor; and my dear sister was close to him—oh, so joyfully close to him—her hand in his, her sweet face upturned to him and smiling, glowing with such faith and love as men cannot deserve: a radiant, holy thing, come straight from the Heart of the dear God, who is the source of Love.

"Oh!" I ejaculated, stopping dead on the threshold.

"Hello, Davy!" the doctor cried.

I fell into the handiest chair. "You got home," I observed, in a gasp. "Didn't you?"

He laughed.

"Sure," I began, vacantly, "an', ecod!" I exclaimed, with heat, "what craft picked you up?"

"The Happy Sally."

"Oh!" said I. 'Twas a queer situation. There seemed so little to say. "Was you drove far?" I asked, politely seeking to fill an awkward gap.

"South o' Belle Isle."

"Ah!"

The doctor was much amused—my sister hardly less so. They watched me with laughing eyes. And they heartlessly abandoned me to my own conversational devices: which turned me desperate.

"Is you goin' t' get married?" I demanded.

My sister blushed—and gave me an arch glance from behind her long, dark lashes. But—

"We are not without hope," the doctor answered, calmly, "that the Bishop will be on our coast next summer."

"I'm glad," I observed, "that you've both come t' your senses."

"Oh!" cried my sister.

"Ecod!" the doctor mocked.

"Ay," said I, with a wag. "I is that!"

The doctor spoke. "'Twas your sister," said he, "found the way. She discovered a word," he continued, turning tenderly to her, his voice charged with new and solemn feeling, "that I'd forgot."

"A word!" said I, amazed.

"Just," he answered, "one word."

'Twas mystifying. "An' what word," I asked, "might that word be?"

"'Expiation,'" he replied.

I did not know the meaning of that word—nor did I care. But I was glad that my dear sister—whose cleverness (and spirit of sacrifice) might ever be depended upon—had found it: since it had led to a consummation so happy.

"Skipper Tommy saved?" I enquired

"He's with the twins at the Rat Hole."

"Then," said I, rising, "as you're both busy," said I, in a saucy flash, "I'll be goin'——"

"You'll not!" roared the doctor. And he leaped from his seat—bore down upon me, indeed, like a mad hurricane: my sister laughing and clapping her little hands. So I knew I must escape or have my bones near crack under the pressure of his affection; and I was agile—and eluded him.

* * * * *

I found Skipper Tommy and the twins at the Rat Hole—the skipper established in comfort by the stove, a cup of tea at his hand, his stockinged feet put up to warm: the twins sitting close, both grinning broadly, each finely alert to anticipate the old man's wants, who now had acquired a pampered air, which sat curiously upon him. "Seems t' me, Davy," he said, in a solemn whisper, at the end of the tale, new told for me, "that the dear Lard took pity. 'You done pretty well, Tommy,' says He, 't' put out t' the help o' Jagger in that there gale. I'm thinkin' I'll have t' change my mind about you,' says He. 'The twins, Tommy,' says He, 'is well growed, an' able lads, both, as I knowed when I started out t' do this thing; but I'm thinkin',' says He, 'that I'll please you, Tommy,' says He, 'by lettin' you live a little longer with them dear lads.' Oh," the skipper concluded, finding goodness in all the acts of the Lord, the while stretching out his rough old hand to touch the boys, his face aglow, "'twas wonderful kind o' Him t' let me see my lads again!"

The twins heartily grinned.



XXVIII

IN HARBOUR

When the doctor was told of the tragic end of Jagger of Wayfarer's Tickle, he shuddered, and sighed, and said that Jagger had planned a noble death for him: but said no more; nor has he since spoken the name of that bad man. And we sent the master of the Jessie Dodd to St. Johns by the last mail-boat of that season—and did not seek to punish him: because he had lost all that he had, and was most penitent; and because Jagger was dead, and had died the death that he did.... The last of the doctor's small patrimony repaired the damage done our business by the wreck of the Trap and Seine: and brought true my old dream of an established trade, done with honour and profit to ourselves and the folk of our coast, and of seven schooners, of which, at last, the twins were made masters of two.... And that winter my sister was very happy—ay, as happy (though 'tis near sin to say it) as her dear self deserved. Sweet sister—star of my life!... The doctor, too, was happy; and not once (and many a cold night I shivered in my meagre nightgown at his door to discover it)—not once did he suffer the old agony I had known him to bear. And when, frankly, I asked him why this was——

"Love, Davy," he answered.

"Love?" said I.

"And labour."

"An' labour?"

"And the Gospel according to Tommy."

"Sure," I asked, puzzled, "what's that?"

"Faith," he answered.

"'Tis queer!" I mused.

"Just faith," he repeated. "Just faith in the loving-kindness of the dear God. Just faith—with small regard for creeds and forms."

This he said with a holy twinkle.

* * * * *

But that was long ago. Since then I have been to the colleges and hospitals of the South, and have come back, here, in great joy, to live my life, serving the brave, kind folk, who are mine own people, heartily loved by me: glad that I am Labrador born and bred—proud of the brave blood in my great body, of the stout purpose in my heart: of which (because of pity for all inlanders and the folk of the South) I may not with propriety boast. Doctor Davy, they call me, now. But I have not gone lacking. I am not without realization of my largest hope. The decks are often wet—wet and white. They heave underfoot—and are wet and white—while the winds come rushing from the gray horizon. Ah, I love the sea—the sweet, wild sea: loveliest in her adorable rage, like a woman!... And my father's house is now enlarged, and is an hospital; and the doctor's sloop is now grown to a schooner, in which he goes about, as always, doing good.... And my sister waits for me to come in from the sea, in pretty fear that I may not come back; and I am glad that she waits, sitting in my mother's place, as my mother used to do.

And Skipper Tommy Lovejoy this day lies dying....

* * * * *

I sit, a man grown, in my mother's room, which now is mine. It is springtime. To-day I found a flower on the Watchman. Beyond the broad window of her room, the hills of Skull Island and God's Warning stand yellow in the sunshine, rivulets dripping from the ragged patches of snow which yet linger in the hollows; and the harbour water ripples under balmy, fragrant winds from the wilderness; and workaday voices, strangely unchanged by the years that are passed, come drifting up the hill from my father's wharves; and, ay, indeed, all the world of sea and land is warm and wakeful and light of heart, just as it used to be, when I was a lad, and my mother lay here dying. But there is no shadow in the house—no mystery. The separate sorrows have long since fled. My mother's gentle spirit here abides—just as it used to do: touching my poor life with holy feeling, with fine dreams, with tender joy. There is no shadow—no mystery. There is a glory—but neither shadow nor mystery. And my hand is still in her dear hand—and she leads me: just as she used to do. And all my days are glorified—by her who said good-bye to me, but has not left me desolate.

* * * * *

Skipper Tommy died to-day. 'Twas at the break of dawn. The sea lay quiet; the sky was flushed with young, rosy colour—all the hues of hope. We lifted him on the pillows: that from the window he might watch—far off at sea—the light chase the shadows from the world.

"A new day!" he whispered.

'Twas ever a mystery to him. That there should come new days—that the deeds of yesterday should be forgot in the shadows of yesterday—that as the dawn new hope should come unfailing, clean, benignant.

"A new day!" he repeated, turning his mild old face from the placid sea, a wondering, untroubled question in his eyes.

"Ay, zur—a new day."

He watched the light grow—the hopeful tints spread rejoicing towards the higher heavens.

"The Lard," he said, "give me work. Blessed be the name o' the Lard!"

All the world was waking.

"The Lard give me pain. Blessed be the name o' the Lard!"

And a breeze came with the dawn—a rising breeze, rippling the purple sea.

"The Lard give me love," he continued, turning tenderly to the stalwart twins. "Blessed be the name o' the Lard!"

The wind swept calling by—blue winds, fair winds to the north: calling at the window, all the while.

"The Lard showed Himself t' me. Oh, ay, that He did," he added, with a return to his old manner. "'Skipper Tommy,' says the Lard," he whispered, "'Skipper Tommy,' says He, 'leave you an' Me,' says He, 'be friends. You'll never regret it, b'y,' says He, 'an you make friends with Me.' Blessed," he said, his last, low voice tremulous with deep gratitude, "oh, blessed be the name o' the Lard!"

The wind called again—blithely called: crying at the window. In all the harbours of our coast, 'twas time to put to sea.

"I wisht," the skipper sighed, "that I'd been—a bit—wickeder. The wicked," he took pains to explain, "knows the dear Lard's love. An', somehow, I isn't feelin' it as I should. An' I wisht—I'd sinned—a wee bit—more."

Still the wind called to him.

"Ecod!" he cried, impatiently, his hand moving feebly to tweak his nose, but failing by the way. "There I been an' gone an' made another mistake! Sure, 'tis awful! Will you tell me, Davy Roth, an you can," he demanded, now possessed of the last flicker of strength, "how I could be wicked without hurtin' some poor man? Ecod! I'm woeful blind."

He dropped my hand—suddenly: forgetting me utterly. His hands sought the twins—waving helplessly: and were caught. Whereupon the father sighed and smiled.

"Dear lads!" he whispered.

The sun rose—a burst of glory—and struck into the room—and blinded the old eyes.

"I wonder——" the old man gasped, looking once more to the glowing sky. "I wonder...."

Then he knew.

* * * * *

How unmomentous is the death we die! This passing—this gentle change from place to place! What was it he said? "'Tis but like wakin' from a troubled dream. 'Tis like wakin' t' the sunlight of a new, clear day. He takes our hand. 'The day is broke,' says He. 'Dream no more, but rise, child o' Mine, an' come into the sunshine with Me.' 'Tis only that that's comin' t' you—only His gentle touch—an' the waking. Hush! Don't you go gettin' scared. 'Tis a lovely thing—that's comin' t' you!" ... And I fancy that the dead pity the living—that they look upon us, in the shadows of the world, and pity us ... And I know that my mother waits for me at the gate—that her arms will be the first to enfold me, her lips the first to touch my cheek. "Davy, dear, my little son," she will whisper in my ear, "aren't you glad that you, too, are dead?" And I shall be glad.

* * * * *

Ha! but here's a cheery little gale of wind blowing up the path. 'Tis my nephew—coming from my father's wharf. Davy, they call him. The sturdy, curly-pated, blue-eyed lad—Labradorman, every luscious inch of him: without a drop of weakling blood in his stout little body! There's jolly purpose in his stride—in his glance at my window. 'Tis a walk on the Watchman, I'll be bound! The wind's in the west, the sun unclouded, the sea in a ripple. The day invites us. Why not? The day does not know that an old man lies dead.... He's at the door. He calls my name. "Uncle Davy! Hi, b'y! Where is you?" Ecod! but the Heavenly choir will never thrill me so.... He's on the stair. I must make haste. In a moment his arms will be round my neck. And——

Here's a large period to my story! The little rascal has upset my bottle of ink!

THE END

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"As superlatively clever in the writing as it is entertaining in the reading. It is actual comedy of the most artistic sort, and it is handled with a freshness and originality that is unquestionably novel."—Boston Transcript. "A feast of humor and good cheer, yet subtly pervaded by special shades of feeling, fancy, tenderness, or whimsicality. A merry thing in prose."—St. Louis Democrat.

ROSE O' THE RIVER. By Kate Douglas Wiggin. With illustrations by George Wright.

"'Rose o' the River,' a charming bit of sentiment, gracefully written and deftly touched with a gentle humor. It is a dainty book—daintily illustrated."—New York Tribune. "A wholesome, bright, refreshing story, an ideal book to give a young girl."—Chicago Record-Herald. "An idyllic story, replete with pathos and inimitable humor. As story-telling it is perfection, and as portrait-painting it is true to the life."—London Mail.

TILLIE: A Mennonite Maid. By Helen R. Martin. With illustrations by Florence Scovel Shinn.

The little "Mennonite Maid" who wanders through these pages is something quite new in fiction. Tillie is hungry for books and beauty and love; and she comes into her inheritance at the end. "Tillie is faulty, sensitive, big-hearted, eminently human, and first, last and always lovable. Her charm glows warmly, the story is well handled, the characters skilfully developed."—The Book Buyer.

LADY ROSE'S DAUGHTER. By Mrs. Humphry Ward. With illustrations by Howard Chandler Christy.

"The most marvellous work of its wonderful author."—New York World. "We touch regions and attain altitudes which it is not given to the ordinary novelist even to approach."—London Times. "In no other story has Mrs. Ward approached the brilliancy and vivacity of Lady Rose's Daughter."—North American Review.

THE BANKER AND THE BEAR. By Henry K. Webster.

"An exciting and absorbing story."—New York Times. "Intensely thrilling in parts, but an unusually good story all through. There is a love affair of real charm and most novel surroundings, there is a run on the bank which is almost worth a year's growth, and there is all manner of exhilarating men and deeds which should bring the book into high and permanent favor."—Chicago Evening Post.

GROSSET & DUNLAP,—NEW YORK

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NATURE BOOKS

With Colored Plates, and Photographs from Life.

BIRD NEIGHBORS. An Introductory Acquaintance with 150 Birds Commonly Found in the Woods, Fields and Gardens About Our Homes. By Neltje Blanchan. With an Introduction by John Burroughs, and many plates of birds in natural colors. Large Quarto, size 7-3/4 x 10-3/8, Cloth. Formerly published at $2.00. Our special price, $1.00.

As an aid to the elementary study of bird life nothing has ever been published more satisfactory than this most successful of Nature Books. This book makes the identification of our birds simple and positive, even to the uninitiated, through certain unique features. I. All the birds are grouped according to color, in the belief that a bird's coloring is the first and often the only characteristic noticed. II. By another classification, the birds are grouped according to their season. III. All the popular names by which a bird is known are given both in the descriptions and the index. The colored plates are the most beautiful and accurate ever given in a moderate-priced and popular book. The most successful and widely sold Nature Book yet published.

BIRDS THAT HUNT AND ARE HUNTED. Life Histories of 170 Birds of Prey, Game Birds and Water-Fowls. By Neltje Blanchan. With Introduction by G. O. Shields (Coquina). 24 photographic illustrations in color. Large Quarto, size 7-3/4 x 10-3/8. Formerly published at $2.00. Our special price, $1.00.

No work of its class has ever been issued that contains so much valuable information, presented with such felicity and charm. The colored plates are true to nature. By their aid alone any bird illustrated may be readily identified. Sportsmen will especially relish the twenty-four color plates which show the more important birds in characteristic poses. They are probably the most valuable and artistic pictures of the kind available to-day.

GROSSET & DUNLAP,—NEW YORK

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NORMAN DUNCAN

DR. GRENFELL'S PARISH

16 Illustrations, Cloth, $1.00 net.

Outlook: "It is a series of sketches of Grenfell's work in Labrador. A very rare picture the author has given of a very rare man: a true story of adventure which we should like to see in the hands of every boy and of every man of whatever age who still retains anything of a boyish heroism in his soul."

N. Y. Globe: "Mr. Duncan has given a very moving picture of the dreadfully hard life of the northern fishermen. He has included dozens of the little cameos of stories, true stories, as he vouches, full of human nature as it is exhibited in primitive conditions."

Congregationalist: "Norman Duncan draws vivid pictures of the Labrador and the service which Dr. Grenfell has rendered to its people. It is a fascinating tale and told with real enthusiasm and charm. The unusual stage of action and the chivalrous quality of the hero, once known, lay hold upon the imagination and will not let go."

Fifth Edition

By DR. WILFRED T. GRENFELL

THE HARVEST OF THE SEA

16 Illustrations, Cloth, $1.00 net.

New York Sun: "Relates the life of the North Sea fisherman on the now famous Dogger Bank: the cruel apprenticeship, the bitter life, the gallant deeds of courage and of seamanship, the evils of drink, the work of the deep sea mission. These are real sea tales that will appeal to every one who cares for salt water, and are told admirably."

N. Y. Tribune: "Dr. Grenfell tells, in fiction form, but with strict adherence to fact, how the mission to deep sea fishermen came to be founded among the fishing fleets that frequent the Dogger Bank that has figured prominently in the recent international complication. It is a story rich in adventure and eloquent of accomplishments for the betterment of the men."

Chicago Tribune: "It is a plain unvarnished tale of the real life of the deep sea fishermen and of the efforts which Grenfell's mission makes to keep before their minds the words of Him who stilled the waters and who chose His bosom disciples from men such as they."

Brooklyn Eagle: "A robust, inspiring book, making us better acquainted with a man of the right sort, doing a man's work."

Fifth Edition

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NORMAN DUNCAN

THE ADVENTURES OF

BILLY TOPSAIL

Illustrated. Cloth, $1.50

A ripping story of adventure by sea is regarded by every true-hearted boy as the very best story of all. The yarn—that's the thing! If the sea is a northern sea, full of ice and swept by big gales, if the adventures are real, if the hero is not a prig, if the tale concerns itself with heroic deeds and moves like a full-rigged ship with all sail spread to a rousing breeze, the boy will say "Bully!" and read the story again. "The Adventures of Billy Topsail" is a book to be chummy with. It is crowded with adventure, every page of it, from the time young Billy is nearly drowned by his dog, until in a big blizzard, lost on an ice-floe, he rescues Sir Archibald's son, and the old Dictator weathers the gale.

There is "something doing" every minute—something exciting and real and inspiring. The book is big enough and broad enough to make Billy Topsail a tried friend of every reader—just the sort of friend Archie found him to be. And Billy is good company. He is not a prig; he is a real boy, full of spirit and fun and courage and the wish to distinguish himself. In a word, as the lads say, he's "all right, all right!" He sails, fishes, travels the ice, goes whaling, is swept to sea with the ice, captures a devil-fish, hunts a pirates' cave, gets lost on a cliff, is wrecked, runs away to join a sealer, and makes himself interesting in a hundred ways. He's a good chum, in calm or gale, on water, ice or shore—that's what Billy Topsail o' Ruddy Cove is.

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By NORMAN DUNCAN

Doctor Luke of The Labrador

12mo, Cloth, $1.50.

N. Y. Evening Post: "Mr. Duncan is deserving of much praise for this, his first novel.... In his descriptive passages Mr. Duncan is sincere to the smallest detail. His characters are painted in with bold, wide strokes.... Unlike most first novels, 'Dr. Luke' waxes stronger as it progresses."

Henry van Dyke: "It is a real book, founded on truth and lighted with imagination, well worth reading and remembering."

Review of Reviews: "Mr. Duncan has added a new province to the realm of literature. This strong, beautiful love story moves with a distinctive rhythm that is as fresh as it is new. One of the season's two or three best books."

Hamilton W. Mabie, in the Ladies' Home Journal: "Full of incidents, dramatically told, of the heroism and romance of humble life: strong, tender, pathetic; one of the most wholesome stories of the season."

Current Literature: "Beyond a peradventure, ranks as one of the most remarkable novels issued in 1904. Stands out so prominently in the year's fiction that there is little likelihood of its being overshadowed."

London Punch: "Since Thackeray wrote the last word of 'Colonel Newcome,' nothing finer has been written than the parting scene where Skipper Tommy Lovejoy, the rugged old fisherman, answers the last call."

Saturday Evening Post: "There is enough power in this little volume to magnetize a dozen of the popular novels of the winter."

Sir Robert Bond, Premier of Newfoundland: "I shall prize the book. It is charmingly written, and faithfully portrays the simple lives of the noble-hearted fisher folk."

Brooklyn Eagle: "Norman Duncan has fulfilled all that was expected of him in this story; it establishes him beyond question as one of the strong masters of present-day fiction."

26th 1000

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THE HUBBARD EXPLORING EXPEDITION

By DILLON WALLACE

The Lure of the Labrador Wild

ILLUSTRATED 8vo CLOTH $1.50 NET.

New York Sun: "A remarkable story, and we are much mistaken if it does not become a classic among tales of exploration."

THE END