In Which Jimmie Grimm and Billy Topsail, Being Added Up and Called a Man, Are Shipped For St. John’s, With Bill o’ Burnt Bay, Where They Fall In With Archie Armstrong, Sir Archibald’s Son, and Bill o’ Burnt Bay Declines to Insure the “First Venture”

Of course, Donald North, who had been ferryman to his father, had no foolishly romantic idea of his experience on that pan of ice; nor had Jimmie Grimm, nor had Billy Topsail. Donald North would not have called it an adventure, nor himself a hero; he would have said, without any affectation of modesty, “Oh, that was jus’ a little mess!” The thing had come in the course of the day’s work: that was all. Something had depended upon him, and, greatly to his elation, he had “made good.” It was no more to him than a hard tackle to a boy of the American towns. Any sound American boy––any boy of healthy courage and clean heart––would doubtless have taken Job North off the drifting floe; and Donald North, for his part, would no doubt have made 89 the tackle and saved the goal––though frightened to a greenish pallor––had he ever been face to face with the necessity. Had he ever survived a football game, he would have thought himself a hero, and perhaps have boasted more than was pleasant; but to have taken a larger chance with his life on a pan of ice was so small and usual a thing as presently to be forgotten.

Newfoundland boys are used to that.

It was still spring at Ruddy Cove––two weeks or more after Bagg came back to his real home––when Donald North’s friends, Billy Topsail and Jimmie Grimm, fell into considerable peril in a gale of wind off the Chunks. Even they––used to such adventures as they were––called it a narrow escape.

“No more o’ that for me,” said Billy Topsail, afterwards.

“Nor me,” said Jimmie Grimm.

“You’ll both o’ you take all that comes your way,” Bill o’ Burnt Bay put in, tartly.

It was aboard the First Venture, which Bill o’ Burnt Bay had as master-builder built at Ruddy Cove for himself. She was to be his––she was his––and he loved her from stem to 90 stern. And she was his because Sir Archibald Armstrong, the great St. John’s merchant and ship-owner, had advanced the money to build her in recognition of Skipper Bill’s courageous rescue of Archie Armstrong, Sir Archibald’s only son, in a great blizzard, on the sealing voyage of the year before.[2] At any rate, the First Venture was Bill’s; and she was now afloat and finished, rigged to the last strand of rope. To say that Skipper Bill was proud of her does not begin to express the way in which he loved her.

“Now, look you, Billy Topsail, and you, too, Jimmie Grimm!” said he, gravely, one day, beckoning the boys near.

The First Venture was lying at anchor in the harbour, ready for her maiden voyage to St. John’s.

“I’m in need of a man aboard this here craft,” Bill o’ Burnt Bay went on; “an’ as there’s none t’ be had in this harbour I’m thinkin’ of addin’ you two boys up an’ callin’ the answer t’ the sum a man.”

“Wisht you would, Skipper Bill,” said Jimmie.

“Two halves makes a whole,” Bill mused, scratching his head in doubt. “Leastwise, so I was teached.”

“They teach it in school,” said Jimmie.

Billy Topsail grinned delightedly.

“Well,” Bill declared, at last, “I’ll take you, no matter what comes of it, for there’s nothing else I can do.”

It wasn’t quite complimentary; but the boys didn’t mind.

When the First Venture made St. John’s it was still early enough in the spring of the year for small craft to be at sea. When she was ready to depart on the return voyage to Ruddy Cove, the days were days of changeable weather, of wind and snow, of fog and rain, of unseasonable intervals of quiet sunshine. The predictions of the wiseacres were not to be trusted; and, at any rate, every forecast was made with a wag of the head that implied a large mental reservation. At sea it was better to proceed with caution. To be prepared for emergencies––to expect the worst and to be ready for it––was the part of plain common sense. And Skipper Bill o’ Burnt Bay was well aware of this. 92

The First Venture lay in dock at St. John’s. She was loaded for Ruddy Cove and the ports beyond. Skipper Bill had launched himself as a coastwise skipper––master of the stout First Venture, carrying freight to the northern settlements at a fair rate for all comers. The hold was full to the deck; and the deck itself was cumbered with casks and cases, all lashed fast in anticipation of a rough voyage. It was a miscellaneous cargo: flour, beef, powder and shot, molasses, kerosene, clothing––such necessities, in short, as the various merchants to whom the cargo was consigned could dispose of to the people of the coast, and such simple comforts as the people could afford.

She was a trim and stout little fore-and-aft schooner of fifty tons burthen. The viewers had awarded the government bounty without a quibble. Old John Hulton, the chief of them––a terror to the slipshod master-builders––had frankly said that she was an honest little craft from bowsprit to taffrail. The newspapers had complimented Bill o’ Burnt Bay, her builder, in black and white which could not be disputed. They had even called Skipper Bill “one of the honest master-builders of the outports.” Nor 93 had they forgotten to add the hope that “in the hands of Skipper William, builder and master, the new craft will have many and prosperous voyages.” By this praise, of course, Skipper Bill was made to glow from head to foot with happy gratification.

All the First Venture wanted was a fair wind out.

“She can leg it, sir,” Skipper Bill said to Sir Archibald, running his eyes over the tall, trim spars of the new craft; “an’ once she gets t’ sea she’s got ballast enough t’ stand up to a sousing breeze. With any sort o’ civil weather she ought t’ make Ruddy Cove in five days.”

“I’d not drive her too hard,” said Sir Archibald, who had come down to look at the new schooner for a purpose.

Bill o’ Burnt Bay looked up in amazement. This from the hard-sailing Sir Archibald!

“Not too hard,” Sir Archibald repeated.

Skipper Bill laughed.

“I’m sure,” said Sir Archibald, “that Mrs. William had rather have you come safe than unexpected. Be modest, Skipper Bill, and reef the Venture when she howls for mercy.”

“I’ll bargain t’ reef her, sir,” Bill replied, “when I thinks you would yourself.” 94

“Oh, come, skipper!” Sir Archibald laughed.

Bill o’ Burnt Bay roared like the lusty sea-dog he was.

“I’ve good reason for wishing you to go cautiously,” said Sir Archibald, gravely.

Bill looked up with interest.

“You’ve settled at Ruddy Cove, skipper?”

“Ay, sir,” Bill answered. “I moved the wife t’ Ruddy Cove when I undertook t’ build the Venture.”

“I’m thinking of sending Archie down to spend the summer,” said Sir Archibald.

Bill o’ Burnt Bay beamed largely and delightedly.

“Do you think,” Sir Archibald went on, with a little grin, “that Mrs. Skipper William would care to take him in?”

“Care?” Skipper Bill exclaimed. “Why, sir, ’twould be as good as takin’ her a stick o’ peppermint.”

“He’ll come aboard this afternoon,” said Sir Archibald.

“He’ll be second mate o’ the Venture,” Bill declared.

“Skipper,” said Sir Archibald, presently, “you’ll be wanting this craft insured, I suppose?” 95

“Well, no, sir,” Bill drawled.

Sir Archibald frowned. “No trouble for me to take the papers out for you,” said he.

“You see, sir,” Bill explained, “I was allowin’ t’ save that there insurance money.”

“Penny wise and pound foolish,” said Sir Archibald.

“Oh,” drawled Skipper Bill, “I’ll manage t’ get her t’ Ruddy Cove well enough. Anyhow,” he added, “’twon’t be wind nor sea that will wreck my schooner.”

“As you will,” said Sir Archibald, shortly; “the craft’s yours.”

Archie Armstrong came aboard that afternoon––followed by two porters and two trunks. He was Sir Archibald’s son; there was no doubt about that: a fine, hardy lad––robust, straight, agile, alert, with his head carried high; merry, quick-minded, ready-tongued, fearless in wind and high sea. His hair was tawny, his eyes blue and wide and clear, his face broad and good-humoured. He was something of a small dandy, too, as the two porters and the two trunks might have explained. The cut of his coat, the knot in his cravat, the polish on his boots, the set of his 96 knickerbockers, were always matters of deep concern to him. But this did not interfere with his friendship with Billy Topsail, the outport boy. That friendship had been formed in times of peril and hardship, when a boy was a boy, and clothes had had nothing to say in the matter.

Archie bounded up the gangplank, crossed the deck in three leaps and stuck his head into the forecastle.

“Ahoy, Billy Topsail!” he roared.

“Ahoy, yourself!” Billy shouted. “Come below, Archie, an’ take a look at Jimmie Grimm.”

Jimmie Grimm was at once taken into the company of friends.