Part 40 (1/2)

”'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, 'n.o.body 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 offsh.o.r.e 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-s.h.i.+p. You ain't never knowed what 'tis t' lie in your bunk in the dark o' long nights s.h.i.+verin' 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 alongsh.o.r.e, 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 s.h.i.+p'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 ash.o.r.e 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 s.h.i.+p'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 Sh.o.r.e, 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 anch.o.r.ed 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 sh.o.r.e, 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 ash.o.r.e on them boilin' rocks,' says the cook.