Part 14 (1/2)

”Then know this,” said Khalil Khayyat, abruptly, ”the song he could not utter he sings in gentle deeds. It is a great song; it is too great for singing-it must be lived. This Salim,” he added, ”is the greatest poet that ever lived. He expresses his sublime and perfect compositions in dear deeds. He is, indeed, a great poet.”

Nageeb Fiani thought it great argument for poetry; so, too, Khalil Khayyat.

IV-THE SQUALL

TUMM of the _Good Samaritan_ kicked the cabin stove into a sputter and roar of flame so l.u.s.ty that the black weather of Jump Harbor was instantly reduced from arrogant and disquieting menace to an impression of contrast grateful to the heart. ”Not bein' a parson,” said he, roused now from a brooding silence by this radiant inspiration, ”I isn't much of a hand at accountin' for the mysteries o' G.o.d; an' never havin' made a world, I isn't no critic o' creation. Still an' all,” he persisted, in a flash of complaint, ”it did seem t' me, somehow, accordin' t' my lights, which wasn't trimmed at no theological college, that the Maker o' Archibald Shott o' Jump Harbor hadn't been quite kind t' Arch.” The man s.h.i.+fted his feet in impatient disdain, then laughed-a gently contemptuous shaft, directed at his insolence: perhaps, too, at his ignorance. It fell to a sigh, however, which continued expression, presently, in a glance of poignant bewilderment. ”Take un by an' all,”

he pursued, ”I was wonderful sorry for Arch. Seemed t' me, sir, though he bore the sign o' the Lord's own hand, as do us all, that he'd but a mean lookout for gracious livin', after all.

”Poor Archibald Shott!

”'Arch, b'y,' says I, 'you got the disposition of a snake.'

”'Is I?' says he. 'Maybe you're right, Tumm. I never knowed a snake in a intimate way.'

”'You got the soul,' said I, 'of a ill-born squid.'

”'Don't know,' said he; 'never _seed_ a squid's soul.'

”'Your tongue,' says I, 'is a flame o' fire; 'tis a wonder t' me she haven't blistered your lips long afore this.'

”'Isn't _my_ fault,' says he.

”'No?' says I. 'Then who's t' blame?'

”'Well,' says he, 'G.o.d made me.'

”'Anyhow,' said I, 'you've took t' the devil's alterations an'

improvements like a imp t' h.e.l.l fire.'”

Tumm dropped into an angry muse....

We had put in from the sea off the Harborless Sh.o.r.e, balked by a screaming Newfoundland northwester, allied with fog and falling night, from rounding Taunt Head, beyond which lay the snug harbor and waiting fish of Candlestick Cove. It had been labor enough, enough of cold, of sleety wind and anxious watching, to send the crew to berth in sleepy confusion when the teacups were emptied. Tumm and I sat in the companionable seclusion of the trader's cabin, the schooner lying at ease in the shelter of Jump Harbor. In the pause, led by the wind from this warmth and peace and light to the reaches of frothy coast, I recalled the cliffs of Black Bight, upon which, as I had been told in the gray gale of that day, the inevitable had overtaken Archibald Shott.

They sprang clear from the breakers, an expanse of black rock, barren as a bone, as it seemed in the sullen light, rising to a veil of fog, which, floating higher than our foremast, kept their topmost places in forbidding mystery. We had come about within stone's-throw, so that the bleak walls, echoing upon us, doubled the thunder of the sea. They inclined from the water: I bore this impression away as the schooner darted from their proximity-an impression, too, of ledges, crevices, broken surfaces. In that tumultuous commotion, perhaps, flung then against my senses, I had small power to observe; but I fancied, I recall, that a nimble man, pursued by fear, might scale the Black Bight cliffs. There was imperative need, however, of knowing the way, else there might be neither advance nor turning back....

”Seemed t' be made jus' o' leavin's, Arch did,” Tumm resumed, with a little twitch of scorn: ”jus' knocked t'gether,” said he, ”with sc.r.a.ps an' odds an' ends from the loft an' floor. But whatever, an a man had no harsh feelin' again' a body patched up out o' the shavin's o' bigger folk, a lean, long-legged, rickety sort o' carca.s.s, like t' break in the grip of a real man,” he continued, ”nor bore no grudge again' high cheek-bones, skimped lips, a ape's forehead, an' pale-green eyes, sot close to a nose like a axe an' pushed a bit too far back, why, then,” he concluded, with a largely generous wave, ”they wasn't a deal o' fault t'

be found with the looks o' Archibald Shott. Wasn't no reason ever _I_ seed why Arch shouldn't o' wed any maid o' nineteen harbors an' lived a sober, righteous, an' fatherly life till the sea cotched un. But it seemed, somehow, that Arch must fall in love with the maid o' Jump Harbor that was promised t' Slow Jim Tool-a lovely la.s.s, sir, believe _me_: a dimpled, rosy, towheaded, ripplin' sort o' maid, as soft as feathers an' as plump as a oyster, with a disposition like suns.h.i.+ne an'-an'-well, _flowers_. She was a wonderful dear an' tender la.s.s, quick t' smile, sir, quick as the sea in a sunlit southerly wind, an' quick t'

cry, too, G.o.d bless her! in sympathy with the woes o' folk.

”'Arch,' says I, wind-bound in the _Curly Head_ at Jump Harbor, 'don't you _do_ it.'

”'Love,' says he, 'is queer.'

”'Maybe,' says I; 'but keep off. You go,' says I, 'an' get a maid o'

your own.'

”'_Wonderful_ queer,' says he. ''Twouldn't s'prise me, Tumm,' says he, 'if a man failed in love with a fish-hook.'

”'Well,' says I, ''Lizabeth All isn't no fish-hook. She've red cheeks an' blue eyes an' as soft an' round a body as a man ever clapped eyes on. Her hair,' says I, 'is a glory; an', Arch,' says I, 'why, she _pities_!'