In Which Many Things Happen: Old Tom Topsail Declares Himself the Bully to Do It, Mrs. Skipper William Bounds Down the Path With a Boiled Lobster, the Mixed Accommodation Sways, Rattles, Roars, Puffs and Quits on a Grade in the Wilderness, Tom Topsail Loses His Way in the Fog and Archie Armstrong Gets Despairing Ear of a Whistle

At Ruddy Cove, that night, when Archie was landed from the Wind and Tide, a turmoil of amazement instantly gave way to the very briskest consultation the wits of the place had ever known.

“There’s no punt can make Burnt Bay the night,” Billy Topsail’s father declared.

“Nor the morrow night if the wind changes,” old Jim Grimm added.

“Nor the next in a southerly gale,” Job North put in.

“There’s the Wind an’ Tide,” Tom Topsail suggested.

“She’s a basket,” said Archie; “and she’s slower than a paddle punt.” 302

“What’s the weather?”

“Fair wind for Burnt Bay an’ a starlit night.”

“I’ve lost the express,” said Archie, excitedly. “I must––I must, I tell you!––I must catch the mixed.”

The Ruddy Cove faces grew long.

“I must,” Archie repeated between his teeth.

The east-bound cross-country express would go through the little settlement of Burnt Bay in the morning. The mixed accommodation would crawl by at an uncertain hour of the following day. It was now the night of the twenty-ninth of August. One day––two days. The mixed accommodation would leave Burnt Bay for St. John’s on the thirty-first of August.

“If she doesn’t forget,” said Job North, dryly.

“Or get tired an’ rest too often,” Jim Grimm added.

Archie caught an impatient breath.

“Look you, lad!” Tom Topsail declared, jumping up. “I’m the bully that will put you aboard!”

Archie flung open the door of Mrs. Skipper William’s kitchen and made for the Topsail wharf with old Tom puffing and lumbering at his heels. Billy Topsail’s mother was hailed 303 with the news. Before Tom had well made the punt shipshape for a driving cruise up the Bay she was on the wharf with a bucket of hardtack and a kettle of water. A frantic scream––perhaps, a shout––announced the coming of Mrs. Skipper William with a ham-bone and a greatcoat. These tossed inboard, she roared a command to delay, gathered up her skirts and fled into the night, whence she emerged, bounding, with a package of tea and a boiled lobster. She had no breath left to bid them Godspeed when Tom Topsail cast off; but she waved her great soft arms, and her portly person shook with the violence of her good wishes. And up went the sail––and out fluttered the little jib––and the punt heeled to the harbour breeze––and Tom Topsail and Archie Armstrong darted away from the lights of Ruddy Cove towards the open sea.

The mixed accommodation, somewhere far back in the Newfoundland wilderness, came to the foot of a long grade. She puffed and valiantly choo-chooed. It was desperately hard work to climb that hill. A man might have walked beside her while she tried it. But she 304 surmounted the crest, at last, and, as though immensely proud of herself, rattled down towards the boulder-strewn level at an amazing rate of speed. On she went, swaying, puffing, roaring, rattling, as though she had no intention whatever of coming to a stop before she had brought her five hundred mile run to a triumphant conclusion in the station at St. John’s.

Even the engineer was astonished.

“Doin’ fine,” thought the fireman, proud of his head of steam.

“She’ll make up them three hours afore mornin’,” the engineer hoped.

On the next grade the mixed accommodation lagged. It was a steep grade. She seemed to lose enthusiasm with every yard of puffing progress. She began to pant––to groan––to gasp with horrible fatigue. Evidently she fancied it a cruel task to be put to. And the grade was long––and it was outrageously steep––and they had overloaded the little engine with freight cars––and she wasn’t yet half-way up. It would take the heart out of any engine. But she buckled to, once more, and trembled and panted and gained a yard or two. It was hard work; it was killing work. It was a ghastly outrage to demand such 305 effort of any engine, most of all of a rat-trap attached to a mixed accommodation on an ill-graded road. The Rat-Trap snorted her indignation. She howled with agony and despair.

And then she quit.

“What’s the matter now?” a passenger asked the conductor, in a coach far in the rear.

“Looks to me as if we’d have to uncouple and run on to the next siding with half the train,” the conductor replied. “But it may be the fire-box.”

“What’s the matter with the fire-box?”

“She has a habit of droppin’ out,” said the conductor.

“We’ll be a day late in St. John’s,” the passenger grumbled.

The conductor laughed. “You will,” said he, “if the trouble is with the fire-box.”

While the mixed accommodation was panting on the long grade, Tom Topsail’s punt, Burnt Bay bound, was splashing through a choppy sea, humoured along by a clever hand and a heart that understood her whims. It was blowing smartly; but the wind was none too much for the tiny craft, and she was making the best of it. At this 306 rate––with neither change nor failure of the wind––Tom Topsail would land Archie Armstrong in Burnt Bay long before the accommodation had begun to think of achieving that point in her journey across the island. There was no failure of the wind as the night spent itself; it blew true and fair until the rosy dawn came softly out of the east. The boy awoke from a long doze to find the punt overhauling the first barren islands of the long estuary at the head of which the Burnt Bay settlement is situated.

With the most favourable weather there was a day’s sailing and more yet to be done.

“How’s the weather?” was Archie’s first question.

“Broodin’,” Tom Topsail drawled.

Archie could find no menace in the dawn.

“Jus’ broodin’,” Topsail repeated.

Towards night it seemed that a change and a gale of wind might be hatched by the brooding day. The wind fluttered to the east and blew up a thickening fog.

“We’ve time an’ t’ spare,” said Topsail, in the soggy dusk. “Leave us go ashore an’ rest.”

They landed, presently, on a promising island, and made a roaring fire. The hot tea and the 307 lobster and the hard-bread––and the tales of Topsail––and the glow and warmth of the fire––were grateful to Archie. He fell sound asleep, at last, with his greatcoat over him; and Tom Topsail was soon snoring, too. In the meantime the mixed accommodation, back in the wilderness, had surmounted the grade, had dropped three heavy cars at a way station, and was rattling on her way towards Burnt Bay with an energy and determination that surprised her weary passengers and could only mean that she was bound to make up at least some lost time or explode in the attempt.

Morning came––it seemed to Archie Armstrong that it never would come––morning came in a thick fog to Tom Topsail and the lad. In a general way Tom Topsail had his bearings, but he was somewhat doubtful about trusting to them. The fog thickened with an easterly wind. It blew wet and rough and cold. The water, in so far as it could be seen from the island, was breaking in white-capped waves; and an easterly wind was none of the best on the Burnt Bay course. But Tom Topsail and Archie put confidently out. The mixed accommodation was not due at Burnt Bay until 12:33. She would doubtless be late; 308 she was always late. There was time enough; perhaps there would be time and to spare. The wind switched a bit to the south of east, however, and became nearly adverse; and down came the fog, thick and blinding. A hundred islands, and the narrowing main-shore to port and starboard, were wiped out of sight. There were no longer landmarks.

“Man,” Tom Topsail declared, at last, “I don’t know where I is!”

“Drive on, Tom,” said Archie.

The punt went forward in a smother of water.

“Half after eleven,” Archie remarked.

Tom Topsail hauled the sheet taut to pick up another puff of wind. An hour passed. Archie had lost the accommodation if she were on time.

“They’s an island dead ahead,” said Tom. “I feels it. Hark!” he added. “Does you hear the breakers?”

Archie could hear the wash of the sea.

“Could it be Right-In-the-Way?” Tom Topsail wondered. “Or is it Mind-Your-Eye Point?”

There was no help in Archie.

“If ’tis Right-In-the-Way,” said Tom, “I’d 309 have me bearin’s. ’Tis a marvellous thick fog, this,” he complained.

Mind-Your-Eye is a point of the mainland.

“I’m goin’ ashore t’ find out,” Tom determined.

Landed, however, he could make nothing of it. Whether Right-In-the-Way, an island near by Burnt Bay, or Mind-Your-Eye, a long projection of the main-shore, there was no telling. The fog hid all outlines. If it were Right-In-the-Way, Tom Topsail could land Archie in Burnt Bay within half an hour; if it were Mind-Your-Eye point––well, maybe.

“Hark!” Tom exclaimed.

Archie could hear nothing.

“Did you not hear it?” said Tom.

“What, man? Hear what?”

“That!” Tom ejaculated.

Archie heard the distant whistle of a train.

“I knows this place,” Tom burst out, in vast excitement. “’Tis Mind-Your-Eye. They’s a cut road from here t’ the railway. ’Tis but half a mile, lad.”

Followed by Archie, Tom Topsail plunged into the bush. They did not need to be told that the mixed accommodation was labouring on 310 a steep grade from Red Brook Bridge. They did not need to be told that a little fire, builded by the track before she ran past, a flaring signal in the fog, would stop her. With them it was merely a problem of getting to the track in time to start that fire.