To the east was the illimitable ocean, laid thick with moonlight and luminous mist; to the west, beyond a stretch of black, slow heaving water, was the low line of Newfoundland, an illusion of kindliness, the malignant character of its jagged rock and barren interior transformed by the gentle magic of the night. Tumm, the clerk, had the wheel of the schooner, and had been staring in a rapture at the stars.

“Jus’ readin’, sir,” he explained.

I wondered what he read.

“Oh,” he answered, turning again to contemplate the starlit sky, “jus’ a little psa’m from my Bible.”

I left him to read on, myself engaged with a perusal of the serene and comforting text-book of philosophy spread overhead. The night was favorably inclined and radiant: a soft southerly wind blowing without menace, a sky of infinite depth and tender shadow, the sea asleep under the moon. With a gentle, aimlessly wandering wind astern—an idle, dawdling, contemptuous breeze, following the old craft lazily, now and again whipping her nose under water to remind her of suspended strength—the trader Good Samaritan ran on, wing and wing, through the moonlight, bound across from Sinners’ Tickle to Afterward Bight, there to deal for the first of the catch.

“Them little stars jus’ will wink!” Tumm complained.

I saw them wink in despite.

“Ecod!” Tumm growled.

The amusement of the stars was not by this altered to a more serious regard: everywhere they winked.

“I’ve seed un peep through a gale o’ wind, a slit in the black sky, a cruel, cold time,” Tumm continued, a pretence of indignation in his voice, “when ’twas a mean hard matter t’ keep a schooner afloat in a dirty sea, with all hands wore out along o’ labor an’ the fear o’ death an’ hell; an’, ecod! them little cusses was winkin’ still. Eh? What d’ye make o’ that?—winkin’ still, the heartless little cusses!”

There were other crises, I recalled—knowing little enough of the labor of the sea—upon which they winked.

“Ay,” Tumm agreed; “they winks when lovers kiss on the roads; an’ they winks jus’ the same,” he added, softly, “when a heart breaks.”

“They’re humorous little beggars,” I observed.

Tumm laughed. “They been lookin’ at this here damned thing so long,” he drawled—meaning, no doubt, upon the spectacle of the world—“that no wonder they winks!”

This prefaced a tale.

“Somehow,” Tumm began, his voice fallen rather despondent, I fancied, but yet continuing most curiously genial, “it always made me think o’ dust an’ ashes t’ clap eyes on ol’ Bill Hulk o’ Gingerbread Cove. Ay, b’y; but I could jus’ fair hear the parson singsong that mean truth o’ life: ‘Dust t’ dust; ashes t’ ashes’—an’ make the best of it, ye sinners an’ young folk! When ol’ Bill hove alongside, poor man! I’d think no more o’ maids an’ trade, o’ which I’m fair sinful fond, but on’y o’ coffins an’ graves an’ ground. For, look you! the ol’ feller was so white an’ wheezy—so fishy-eyed an’ crooked an’ shaky along o’ age. ’Tis a queer thing, sir, but, truth o’ God, so old was Bill Hulk that when he’d board me I’d remember somehow the warm breast o’ my mother, an’ then think, an’ couldn’t help it, o’ the bosom o’ dust where my head must lie.”

Tumm paused.

“Seemed t’ me, somehow,” he continued, “when the Quick as Wink was lyin’ of a Sunday t’ Gingerbread Cove—seemed t’ me somehow, when I’d hear the church bell ring an’ echo across the water an’ far into the hills—when I’d cotch sight o’ ol’ Bill Hulk, with his staff an’ braw black coat, crawlin’ down the hill t’ meetin’—ay, an’ when the sun was out, warm an’ yellow, an’ the maids an’ lads was flirtin’ over the roads t’ hear the parson thunder agin their hellish levity—seemed t’ me then, somehow, that ol’ Bill was all the time jus’ dodgin’ along among open graves; for, look you! the ol’ feller had such trouble with his legs. An’ I’d wish by times that he’d stumble an’ fall in, an’ be covered up in a comfortable an’ decent sort o’ fashion, an’ stowed away for good an’ all in the bed where he belonged.

“‘Uncle Bill,’ says I, ‘you at it yet?’

“‘Hangin’ on, Tumm,’ says he. ‘I isn’t quite through.’

“‘Accordin’ t’ the signs,’ says I, ‘you isn’t got much of a grip left.’

“‘Yes, I is!’ says he. ‘I got all my fishin’ fingers exceptin’ two, an’ I ’low they’ll last me till I’m through.’

“Ecod! sir, but it made me think so mean o’ the world that I ’lowed I’d look away.

“‘No, Tumm,’ says he, ‘I isn’t quite through.’

“‘Well,’ says I, ‘you must be tired.’

“‘Tired,’ says he. ‘Oh no, b’y! Tired? Not me! I got a little spurt o’ labor t’ do afore I goes.’

“‘An’ what’s that, Uncle Bill?’ says I.

“‘Nothin’ much,’ says he.

“‘But what is it?’

“‘Nothin’ much,’ says he; ‘jus’ a little spurt o’ labor.’

“The ol’ feller lived all alone, under Seven Stars Head, in a bit of a white house with black trimmin’s, jus’ within the Tickle, where ’twas nice an’ warm an’ still; an’ he kep’ his house as neat an’ white as a ol’ maid with a gray tomcat an’ a window-garden o’ geraniums, an’, like all the ol’ maids, made the best fish on fifty mile o’ coast. ’Twas said by the ol’ folks o’ Gingerbread Cove that their fathers knowed the time when Bill Hulk had a partner; but the partner got lost on the Labrador, an’ then Bill Hulk jus’ held on cotchin’ fish an’ keepin’ house all alone, till he got the habit an’ couldn’t leave off. Was a time, I’m told, a time when he had his strength—was a time, I’m told, afore he wore out—was a time when Bill Hulk had a bit o’ money stowed away in a bank t’ St. John’s. Always ’lowed, I’m told, that ’twas plenty t’ see un through when he got past his labor. ‘I got enough put by,’ says he. ‘I got more’n enough. I’m jus’ fishin’ along,’ says he, ‘t’ give t’ the poor. Store in your youth,’ says he, ‘an’ you’ll not want in your age.’ But somehow some o’ them St. John’s gentlemen managed t’ discover expensive ways o’ delightin’ theirselves; an’ what with bank failures an’ lean seasons an’ lumbago, ol’ Bill was fallen poor when first I traded Gingerbread Cove. About nine year after that, bein’ then used t’ the trade o’ that shore, I ’lowed that Bill had better knock off an’ lie in the sun till ’twas time for un t’ go t’ his last berth. ‘’Twon’t be long,’ thinks I, ’an’ I ’low my owners can stand it. Anyhow,’ thinks I, ‘’tis high time the world done something for Bill.’

“But—

“‘Tumm,’ says he, ‘how many books is kep’ by traders in Newf’un’land?’

“I ’lowed I didn’t know.

“‘Call it a round million,’ says he.

“‘What of it?’ says I.

“‘Nothin’ much,’ says he.

“‘But what of it?’ says I.

“‘Well,’ says he, ‘if you was t’ look them million books over, goin’ as easy as you please an’ markin’ off every line o’ every page with your forefinger, what d’ye think would come t’ pass?’

“I ’lowed I couldn’t tell.

“‘Eh?’ says he. ‘Come, now! give a guess.’

“‘I don’t know, Bill,’ says I.

“‘Why, Tumm,’ says he, ‘you wouldn’t find a copper agin the name o’ ol’ Bill Hulk!’

“‘That’s good livin’,’ says I.

“‘Not a copper!’ says he. ‘No, sir; not if you looked with spectacles. An’ so,’ says he, ‘I ’low I’ll jus’ keep on payin’ my passage for the little time that’s left. If my back on’y holds out,’ says he, ‘I’ll manage it till I’m through. ’Twon’t be any more than twenty year. Jus’ a little spurt o’ labor t’ do, Tumm,’ says he, ‘afore I goes.’

“‘More labor, Uncle Bill?’ says I. ‘God’s sake!’

“‘Nothin’ much,’ says he; ‘jus’ a little spurt afore I goes in peace.’

“Ah, well! he’d labored long enough, lived long enough, t’ leave other hands clean up the litter an’ sweep the room o’ his life. I didn’t know what that little spurt o’ labor was meant t’ win for his peace o’ mind—didn’t know what he’d left undone—didn’t know what his wish or his conscience urged un t’ labor for. I jus’ wanted un t’ quit an’ lie down in the sun. ‘For,’ thinks I, ‘the world looks wonderful greedy an’ harsh t’ me when I hears ol’ Bill Hulk’s bones rattle over the roads or come squeakin’ through the Tickle in his punt. ‘Leave un go in peace!’ thinks I. ‘I isn’t got no love for a world that sends them bones t’ sea in an easterly wind. Ecod!’ thinks I; ‘but he’ve earned quiet passage by jus’ livin’ t’ that ghastly age—jus’ by hangin’ on off a lee shore in the mean gales o’ life.’ Seemed t’ me, too, no matter how Bill felt about it, that he might be obligin’ an’ quit afore he was through. Seemed t’ me he might jus’ stop where he was an’ leave the friends an’ neighbors finish up. ’Tisn’t fair t’ ask a man t’ have his labor done in a ship-shape way—t’ be through with the splittin’ an’ all cleaned up—when the Skipper sings out, ‘Knock off, ye dunderhead!’ Seems t’ me a man might leave the crew t’ wash the table an’ swab the deck an’ throw the livers in the cask.

“‘You be obligin’, Bill,’ says I, ‘an’ quit.’

“‘Isn’t able,’ says he, ’till I’m through.’

“So the bones o’ ol’ Bill Hulk rattled an’ squeaked right on till it made me fair ache when I thunk o’ Gingerbread Cove.

“About four year after that I made the Cove in the spring o’ the year with supplies. ‘Well,’ thinks I, ‘they won’t be no Bill Hulk this season. With that pain in his back an’ starboard leg, this winter have finished he; an’ I’ll lay a deal on that.’ ’Twas afore dawn when we dropped anchor, an’ a dirty dawn, too, with fog an’ rain, the wind sharp, an’ the harbor in a tumble for small craft; but the first man over the side was ol’ Bill Hulk.

“‘It can’t be you, Uncle Bill!’ says I.

“‘Tumm,’ says he, ‘I isn’t quite through—yet.’

“‘You isn’t goin’ at it this season, is you?’

“‘Ay,’ says he; ‘goin’ at it again, Tumm.’

“‘What for?’ says I.

“‘Nothin’ much,’ says he.

“‘But what for?’

“‘Well,’ says he, ‘I’m savin’ up.’

“‘Savin’ up?’ says I. ‘Shame to you! What you savin’ up for?’

“‘Oh,’ says he, ‘jus’ savin’ up.’

“‘But what for?’ says I. ‘What’s the sense of it?’

“‘Bit o’ prope’ty,’ says he. ‘I’m thinkin’ o’ makin’ a small investment.’

“‘At your age, Uncle Bill!’ says I. ‘An’ a childless man!’

“‘Jus’ a small piece,’ says he. ‘Nothin’ much, Tumm.’

“‘But it won’t do you no good,’ says I.

“‘Well, Tumm,’ says he, ‘I’m sort o’ wantin’ it, an’ I ’low she won’t go t’ waste. I been fishin’ from Gingerbread Cove for three hundred year,’ says he, ‘an’ when I knocks off I wants t’ have things ship-shape. Isn’t no comfort, Tumm,’ says he, ‘in knockin’ off no other way.’

“Three hundred year he ’lowed he’d fished from that there harbor, a hook-an’-line man through it all; an’ as they wasn’t none o’ us abroad on the coast when he come in, he’d stick to it, spite o’ parsons. They was a mean little red-headed parson came near churchin’ un for the whopper; but Bill Hulk wouldn’t repent. ‘You isn’t been here long enough t’ know, parson,’ says he. ‘’Tis goin’ on three hundred year, I tells you! I’ll haul into my fourth hundred,’ says he, ‘come forty-three year from Friday fortnight.’ Anyhow, he’d been castin’ lines on the Gingerbread grounds quite long enough. ’Twas like t’ make a man’s back ache—t’ make his head spin an’ his stomach shudder—jus’ t’ think o’ the years o’ labor an’ hardship Bill Hulk had weathered. Seemed t’ me the very stars must o’ got fair disgusted t’ watch un put out through the Tickle afore dawn an’ pull in after dark.

“‘Lord!’ says they. ‘If there ain’t Bill Hulk puttin’ out again! Won’t nothin’ ever happen t’ he?’”

I thought it an unkind imputation.

“Well,” Tumm explained, “the little beggars is used t’ change; an’ I wouldn’t wonder if they was bored a bit by ol’ Bill Hulk.”

It might have been.

“Four or five year after that,” Tumm proceeded, “the tail of a sou’east gale slapped me into Gingerbread Cove, an’ I ’lowed t’ hang the ol’ girl up till the weather turned civil. Thinks I, ‘’Tis wonderful dark an’ wet, but ’tis also wonderful early, an’ I’ll jus’ take a run ashore t’ yarn an’ darn along o’ ol’ Bill Hulk.’ So I put a bottle in my pocket t’ warm the ol’ ghost’s marrow, an’ put out for Seven Stars Head in the rodney. ’Twas mean pullin’ agin the wind, but I fetched the stage-head ’t last, an’ went crawlin’ up the hill. Thinks I, ‘They’s no sense in knockin’ in a gale o’ wind like this, for Bill Hulk’s so wonderful hard o’ hearin’ in a sou’east blow.’

“So I drove on in.

“‘Lord’s sake, Bill!’ says I, ‘what you up to?’

“‘Nothin’ much, Tumm,’ says he.

“‘It don’t look right,’ says I. ‘What is it?’

“‘Nothin’ much,’ says he; ‘jus’ countin’ up my money.’

“’Twas true enough: there he sot—playin’ with his fortune. They was pounds of it: coppers an’ big round pennies an’ silver an’ one lone gold piece.

“‘You been gettin’ rich?’ says I.

“‘Tumm,’ says he, ‘you got any clear idea o’ how much hard cash they is lyin’ right there on that plain deal table in this here very kitchen you is in?’

“‘I isn’t,’ says I.

“‘Well,’ says he, ‘they’s as much as fourteen dollar! An’ what d’ye think o’ that?’

“I ’lowed I’d hold my tongue; so I jus’ lifted my eyebrow, an’ then sort o’ whistled, ‘Whew!’

“‘Fourteen,’ says he, ‘an’ more!’

“‘Whew!’ says I.

“‘An’, Tumm,’ says he, ‘I had twenty-four sixty once—about eighteen year ago.’

“‘You got a heap now,’ says I. ‘Fourteen dollar! Whew!’

“‘No, Tumm!’ cries he, all of a sudden. ‘No, no! I been lyin’ t’ you. I been lyin’!’ says he. ‘Lyin’!’

“‘I don’t care,’ says I; ‘you go right ahead an’ lie.’

“‘They isn’t fourteen dollar there,’ says he. ‘I jus’ been makin’ believe they was. See that there little pile o’ pennies t’ the nor’east? I been sittin’ here countin’ in them pennies twice. They isn’t fourteen dollar,’ says he; ‘they’s on’y thirteen eighty-four! But I wisht they was fourteen.’

“‘Never you mind,’ says I; ‘you’ll get that bit o’ prope’ty yet.’

“‘I got to,’ says he, ‘afore I goes.’

“‘Where does it lie?’ says I.

“‘Oh, ’tisn’t nothin’ much, Tumm,’ says he.

“‘But what is it?’

“‘Nothin’ much,’ says he; ‘jus’ a small piece.’

“‘Is it meadow?’ says I.

“‘No,’ says he; ‘tisn’t what you might call meadow an’ be right, though the grass grows there, in spots, knee high.’

“‘Is it a potato-patch?’

“‘No,’ says he; ‘nor yet a patch.’

“‘’Tisn’t a flower garden, is it?’ says I.

“‘N-no,’ says he; ‘you couldn’t rightly say so—though they grows there, in spots, quite free an’ nice.’

“‘Uncle Bill,’ says I, ‘you isn’t never told me nothin’ about that there bit o’ prope’ty. What’s it held at?’

“‘The prope’ty isn’t much, Tumm,’ says he. ‘Jus’ a small piece.’

“‘But how much is it?’

“‘Tom Neverbudge,’ says he, ‘is holdin’ it at twenty-four dollar; he’ve come down one in the las’ seven year. But I’m on’y ’lowin’ t’ pay twenty-one; you sees I’ve come up one in the las’ four year.’

“‘’Twould not be hard t’ split the difference,’ says I.

“‘Ay,’ says he; ‘but they’s a wonderful good reason for not payin’ more’n twenty-one for that there special bit o’ land.’

“‘What’s that?’ says I.

“‘Well,’ says he, ‘’tis second-handed.’

“‘Second-handed!’ says I. ‘That’s queer!’

“‘Been used,’ says he.

“‘Used, Uncle Bill?’

“‘Ay,’ says he; ‘been used—been used, now, for nigh sixty year.’

“‘She’s all wore out?’ says I.

“‘No,’ says he; ‘not wore out.’

“‘She’d grow nothin’?’ says I.

“‘Well,’ says he, ‘nothin’ much is expected, Tumm,’ says he, ‘in that line.’

“I give a tug at my pocket, an’, ecod! out jumped the bottle o’ Scotch.

“‘Well, well!’ says he. ‘Dear man! But I bet ye,’ says he, ‘that you isn’t fetched no pain-killer.’

“‘That I is!’ says I.

“‘Then,’ says he, ‘about half an’ half, Tumm, with a dash o’ water; that’s the way I likes it when I takes it.’

“So we fell to, ol’ Bill Hulk an’ me, on the Scotch an’ the pain-killer.

“Well, now, after that,” Tumm resumed, presently, “I went deep sea for four year in the South American fish trade; an’ then, my ol’ berth on the Quick as Wink bein’ free of incumbrance—’twas a saucy young clerk o’ the name o’ Bullyworth—I ’lowed t’ blow the fever out o’ my system with the gales o’ this here coast. ‘A whiff or two o’ real wind an’ a sight o’ Mother Burke,’ thinks I, ‘will fix me.’ ’Twas a fine Sunday mornin’ in June when I fetched Gingerbread Cove in the ol’ craft—warm an’ blue an’ still an’ sweet t’ smell. ‘They’ll be no Bill Hulk, thank God!’ thinks I, ‘t’ be crawlin’ up the hill t’ meetin’ this day; he’ve got through an’ gone t’ his berth for all time. I’d like t’ yarn with un on this fine civil Sunday,’ thinks I; ‘but I ’low he’s jus’ as glad as I is that he’ve been stowed away nice an’ comfortable at last.’ But from the deck, ecod! when I looked up from shavin’, an’ Skipper Jim was washin’ up in the forecastle, I cotched sight o’ ol’ Bill Hulk, bound up the hill through the sunshine, makin’ tolerable weather of it, with the wind astern, a staff in his hand, and the braw black coat on his back.

“‘Skipper Jim,’ sings I, t’ the skipper below, ‘you hear a queer noise?’

“‘No,’ says he.

“‘Nothin’ like a squeak or a rattle?’

“‘No,’ says he. ‘What’s awry?’

“‘Oh, nothin’ says I:’ on’y ol’ Bill Hulk’s on the road.’

“I watched un crawl through the little door on Meetin’-house Hill long after ol’ Sammy Street had knocked off pullin’ the bell; an’ if I didn’t hear neither squeak nor rattle as he crep’ along, why, I felt un, anyhow, which is jus’ as hard to bear. ‘Well,’ thinks I, ‘he’ve kep’ them bones above ground, poor man! but he’s never at it yet. He’ve knocked off for good,’ thinks I; ‘he’ll stumble t’ meetin’ of a fine Sunday mornin’, an’ sit in the sun for a spell; an’ then,’ thinks I, ‘they’ll stow un away where he belongs.’ So I went aboard of un that evenin’ for a last bit of a yarn afore his poor ol’ throat rattled an’ quit.

“‘So,’ says I, ‘you is at it yet?’

“‘Ay, Tumm,’ says he; ‘isn’t quite through—yet. But,’ says he, ‘I’m ’lowin’ t’ be.’

“‘Hard at it, Uncle Bill?’ says I.

“‘Well, no, Tumm,’ says he; ‘not hard. Back give warnin’ a couple o’ year ago,’ says he, ‘an’ I been sort o’ easin’ off for fear o’ accident. I’ve quit the Far Away grounds,’ says he, ‘but I been doin’ very fair on Widows’ Shoal. They’s on’y one o’ them fishin’ there nowadays, ah’ she ’lowed she didn’t care.’

“‘An’ when,’ says I, ‘is you ’lowin’ t’ knock off?’

“‘Jus’ as soon as I gets through, Tumm,’ says he. ‘I won’t be a minute longer.’

“Then along come the lean-cheeked, pig-eyed, scrawny-whiskered son of a squid which owned the bit o’ prope’ty that Bill Hulk had coveted for thirty year. Man o’ the name o’ Tom Budge; but as he seldom done it, they called un Neverbudge; an’ Gingerbread Cove is full o’ Never-budges t’ this day. Bill ’lowed I might as well go along o’ he an’ Tom t’ overhaul the bit o’ land they was tryin’ t’ trade; so out we put on the inland road—round Burnt Bight, over the crest o’ Knock Hill, an’ along the alder-fringed path. ’Twas in a green, still, soft-breasted little valley—a little pool o’ sunshine an’ grass among the hills—with Ragged Ridge t’ break the winds from the sea, an’ the wooded slope o’ the Hog’s Back t’ stop the nor’westerly gales. ’Twas a lovely spot, sir, believe me, an’ a gentle-hearted one, too, lyin’ deep in the warmth an’ glory o’ sunshine, where a man might lay his head on the young grass an’ go t’ sleep, not mindin’ about nothin’ no more. Ol’ Bill Hulk liked it wonderful well. Wasn’t no square o’ ground on that coast that he’d rather own, says he, than the little plot in the sou’east corner o’ that graveyard.

“‘Sight rather have that, Tumm,’ says he, ‘than a half-acre farm.’

“’Twas so soft an’ snug an’ sleepy an’ still in that little graveyard that I couldn’t blame un for wantin’ t’ stretch out somewheres an’ stay there forever.

“‘Ay,’ says he, ‘an’ a thirty-foot potato-patch throwed in!’

“‘‘’Tis yours at the price,’ says Tom Neverbudge.

“‘If,’ says Bill Hulk, ‘’twasn’t a second-handed plot. See them graves in the sou’west corner, Tumm?’

“Graves o’ two children, sir: jus’ on’y that—laid side by side, sir, where the sunlight lingered afore the shadow o’ Hog’s Back fell.

“‘Been there nigh sixty year,’ says Bill. ‘Pity,’ says he; ‘wonderful pity.’

“‘They won’t do you no harm,’ says Neverbudge.

“‘Ay,’ says Bill; ‘but I’m a bachelor, Tom, used t’ sleepin’ alone,’ says he, ‘an’ I’m ’lowin’ I wouldn’t take so wonderful quick t’ any other habit. I’m told,’ says he, ‘that sleepin’ along o’ children isn’t what you might call a easy berth.’

“‘You’d soon get used t’ that,’ says Neverbudge. ‘Any family man’ll tell you so.’

“‘Ay,’ says Bill; ‘but they isn’t kin o’ mine. Why,’ says he, ‘they isn’t even friends!’

“‘That don’t matter,’ says Neverbudge.

“‘Not matter!’ says he. ‘Can you tell me, Tom Neverbudge, the names o’ them children?’

“‘Not me.’

“‘Nor yet their father’s name?’

“‘No, sir.’

“‘Then,’ says Bill, ‘as a religious man, is you able t’ tell me they was born in a proper an’ perfeckly religious manner?’

“‘I isn’t,’ says Neverbudge. ‘I guarantees nothin’.’

“‘An’ yet, as a religious man,’ says Bill, ‘you stands there an’ says it doesn’t matter?’

“‘Anyhow,’ says Neverbudge, ‘it doesn’t matter much’

“‘Not much!’ cries Bill. ‘An’ you a religious man! Not much t’ lie for good an’ all,’ says he, ‘in the company o’ the damned?’

“With that Tom Neverbudge put off in a rage.

“‘Uncle Billy,’ says I, ‘what you wantin’ that plot for, anyhow? ’Tis so damp ’tis fair swampy.’

“‘Nothin’ much,’ says he.

“‘But what for?’ says I.

“‘Well,’ says he, ‘I wants it.’

“‘An’ ’tis on a side-hill,’ says I. ‘If the dunderheads doesn’t dig with care, you’ll find yourself with your feet higher’n your head.’

“‘Well,’ says he, ‘I wants it.’

“‘You isn’t got no friends in this neighborhood,’ says I; ‘they’re all put away on the north side. An’ the sun,’ says I, ‘doesn’t strike here last.’

“‘I wants it,’ says he.

“‘What for?’ says I.

“‘Nothin’ much,’ says he; ‘but I wants it.’

“‘But what for?’ says I.

“‘Well,’ says he, in a temper, ‘I got a hankerin’ for it!’

“‘Then, Uncle Bill,’ says I, for it made me sad,’ I wouldn’t mind them little graves. They’re poor wee things,’ says I, ‘an’ they wouldn’t disturb your rest.’

“‘Hush!’ says he. ‘Don’t—don’t say that!’

“‘Graves o’ children,’ says I.

“‘Don’t say no more, Tumm,’ says he.

“‘Jus’ on’y poor little kids,’ says I.

“‘Stop!’ says he. ‘Doesn’t you see I’m cryin’?’

“Then up come Tom Neverbudge. ‘Look you, Bill Hulk!’ says he, ‘you can take that plot or leave it. I’ll knock off seventy-five cents on account o’ the risk you take in them children. Come now!’ says he; ‘you take it or leave it.’

“‘Twenty-one fifty,’ says Bill. ‘That’s a raise o’ fifty, Tom.’

“‘Then,’ says Tom, ‘I’ll use that plot meself.’

“Bill Hulk jumped. ‘You!’ says he. ‘Nothin’ gone wrong along o’ you, is they, Tom?’

“‘Not yet,’ says Tom; ‘but they might.’

“‘No chill,’ says Bill, ‘an’ no fever? No ache in your back, is they, Tom?’

“‘Nar a ache.’

“‘An’ you isn’t give up the Labrador?’

“‘Not me!’

“‘Oh, well,’ says Bill, feelin’ easy again, ‘I ’low you won’t never need no graveyard.’

“Tom Neverbudge up canvas an’ went off afore the wind in a wonderful temper; an’ then ol’ Bill Hulk an’ me took the homeward road. I remembers the day quite well—the low, warm sun, the long shadows, the fresh youth an’ green o’ leaves an’ grass, the tinkle o’ bells on the hills, the reaches o’ sea, the peace o’ weather an’ Sabbath day. I remembers it well: the wheeze an’ groan o’ ol’ Bill—crawlin’ home, sunk deep in the thought o’ graves—an’ the tender, bedtime twitter o’ the new-mated birds in the alders. When we rounded Fish Head Rock—’tis half-way from the graveyard—I seed a lad an’ a maid flit back from the path t’ hide whilst we crep’ by; an’ they was a laugh on the lad’s lips, an’ a smile an’ a sweet blush on the maid’s young face, as maids will blush an’ lads will laugh when love lifts un high. ’Twas at that spot I cotched ear of a sound I knowed quite well, havin’ made it meself, thank God! many a time an’ gladly.

“Bill Hulk stopped dead in the path. ‘What’s that?’ says he.

“‘Is you not knowin’?’ says I.

“‘I’ve heared it afore,’ says he, ‘somewheres.’

“Twas a kiss,’ says I.

“‘Tumm,’ says he, in a sort o’ scared whisper, ‘is they at that yet in the world?’

“‘Jus’ as they used t’ be,’ says I, ‘when you was young.’

“‘Well,’ says he, ‘jig me!’

“Then I knowed, somehow, jus’ how old ol’ Bill Hulk must be.

“Well, thereafter,” Tumm continued, with a sigh and a genial little smile, “they come lean years an’ they come fat ones, as always, by the mystery o’ God. Ol’ Bill Hulk drove along afore the wind, with his last rags o’ sail all spread, his fortune lean or fat as the Lord’s own seasons ’lowed. He’d fall behind or crawl ahead jus’ accordin’ t’ the way a careful hand might divide fish by hunger; but I ’lowed, by an’ all, he was overhaulin’ Tom Neverbudge’s twenty-three twenty-five, an’ would surely make it if the wind held true a few years longer. ‘Twelve thirty more, Tumm,’ says he, ‘an’ if ’twasn’t for the pork I might manage it this season. The longer you lives, Tumm,’ says he, ‘the more expensive it gets. Cost me four fifty las’ season for Dr. Hook’s Surecure Egyptian Lumbago Oil, an’ one fifty, Tumm, for a pair o’ green glasses t’ fend off blindness from the aged. An’ I jus’ got t’ have pork t’ keep my ol’ bones warm. I don’t want no pork,’ says he; ‘but they isn’t no heat in flour, an’, anyhow, I got t’ build my shoulder muscles up. You take a ol’ hulk like mine,’ says he, ‘an’ you’ll find it a wonderful expensive craft t’ keep in sailin’ order.’

“‘You stick t’ pork,’ says I.

“‘I was thinkin’,’ says he, ‘o’ makin’ a small investment in a few bottles o’ Hook’s Vigor. Clerk o’ the Free for All,’ says he, ‘’lows ’tis a wonderful nostrum t’ make the old feel young.’

“‘You stick t’ pork,’ says I, ‘an’ be damned t’ the clerk o’ the Free for All.’

“‘Maybe I better,’ says he, ‘an’ build up my shoulders. They jus’ got t’ be humored.’

“Ol’ Bill Hulk always ’lowed that if by God’s chance they’d on’y come a fair fishin’ season afore his shoulders give out he’d make a self-respectin’ haul an’ be through. ‘Back give out about thirteen year ago,’ says he, ‘the time I got cotched by a dirty nor’easter on the Bull’s Horn grounds. One o’ them strings back there sort o’ went an’ snapped,’ says he, ‘jus’ as I was pullin’ in the Tickle, an’ she isn’t been o’ much use t’ me since. Been rowin’ with my shoulders for a little bit past,’ says he, ‘an’ doin’ very fair in southerly weather; but I got a saucy warnin’,’ says he, ‘that they won’t stand nothin’ from the nor’east. “No, sir,” says they; “nothin’ from the nor’east for we, Bill Hulk, an’ don’t you put us to it!” I’m jus’ a bit afeared,’ says he, ‘that they might get out o’ temper in a southerly tumble; an’ if they done that, why, I’d jus’ have t’ stop, dear Lord!’ says he, ‘’ithout bein’ through! Isn’t got no legs t’ speak of,’ says he, ‘but I don’t need none. I got my arms runnin’ free,’ says he,’ an’ I got one thumb an’ all my fishin’ fingers ’ceptin’ two. Lungs,’ says he, ‘is so-so; they wheezes, Tumm, as you knows, an’ they labors in a fog, an’ aches all the time, but chances is they’ll last, an’ a fair man can’t ask no more. As for liver, Tumm,’ says he, ‘they isn’t a liver on these here coasts t’ touch the liver I got. Why,’ says he, ‘I never knowed I had one till I was told!’

“‘Liver,’ says I, ‘is a ticklish business.’

“‘’Lowin’ a man didn’t overeat,’ says he, ‘think he could spurt along for a spell on his liver?’

“‘I does,’ says I.

“‘That’s good,’ says he; ‘for I’m countin’ a deal on she.’

“‘Never you fear,’ says I. ‘She’ll stand you.’

“‘Think she will?’ says he, jus’ like a child. ‘Maybe, then,’ says he, ‘with my own labor, Tumm, I’ll buy my own grave at last!’

“But the season bore hard on the ol’ man, an’ when I balanced un up in the fall o’ the year, the twelve thirty he’d been t’ leeward o’ the twenty-three twenty-five Tom Neverbudge wanted for the plot where the two little graves lay side by side had growed t’ fifteen ninety-three.

“‘Jus’ where I was nine year ago,’ says he, ‘lackin’ thirty-four cents.’

“‘Never you fear,’ says I

“‘My God! Tumm,’ says he, ‘I got t’ do better nex’ season.’”

Tumm paused to gaze at the stars.

“Still there,” I ventured.

“Winkin’ away,” he answered, “the wise little beggars!”

The Good Samaritan dawdled onward.

“Well, now, sir,” Tumm continued, “winter tumbled down on Gingerbread Cove, thick an’ heavy, with nor’east gales an’ mountains o’ snow; but ol’ Bill Hulk weathered it out on his own hook, an’ by March o’ that season, I’m told, had got so far along with his shoulder muscles that he went swilin’ [sealing] with the Gingerbread men at the first offshore sign. ’Twas a big pack, four mile out on the floe, with rough ice, a drear gray day, an’ the wind in a nasty temper. He done very well, I’m told, what with the legs he had, an’ was hard at it when the wind changed to a westerly gale an’ drove the ice t’ sea. They wasn’t no hope for Bill, with four mile o’ ice atween him an’ the shore, an’ every chunk an’ pan o’ the floe in a mad hurry under the wind: they knowed it an’ he knowed it. ‘Lads,’ says he, ‘you jus’ run along home or you’ll miss your supper. As for me,’ says he, ‘why, I’ll jus’ keep on swilin’. Might as well make a haul,’ says he, ‘whatever comes of it.’ The last they seed o’ Bill, I’m told, he was still hard at it, gettin’ his swiles on a likely pan; an’ they all come safe t’ land, every man o’ them, ’ceptin’ two young fellers, I’m told, which was lost in a jam off the Madman’s Head. Wind blowed westerly all that night, I’m told, but fell jus’ after dawn; an’ then they nosed poor ol’ Bill out o’ the floe, where they found un buried t’ the neck in his own dead swiles, for the warmth of the life they’d had, but hard put to it t’ keep the spark alight in his own chilled breast.

“‘Maybe I’m through,’ says he, when they’d got un ashore; ‘but I’ll hang on so long as I’m able.’

“‘Uncle Billy,’ says they, ‘you’re good for twenty year yet.’

“‘No tellin’,’ says he.

“‘Oh, sure!’ says they; ‘you’ll do it.’

“‘Anyhow,’ says he, ‘now that you’ve fetched me t’ land,’ says he, ‘I got t’ hang on till the Quick as Wink comes in.’

“‘What for?’ says they.

“‘Nothin’ much,’ says he; ‘but I jus’ got to.’

“‘You go t’ bed,’ says they, ‘an’ we’ll stow them swile in the stage.’

“‘I’ll lie down an’ warm up,’ says he, ‘an’ rest for a spell. Jus’ a little spurt,’ says he, ‘jus’ a little spurt—o’ rest.’

“‘You’ve made a wonderful haul,’ says they.

“‘At last!’ says he.

“‘Rest easy,’ says they, ‘as t’ that.’

“’Twas the women that put un t’ bed.

“‘Seems t’ me,’ says he, ‘that the frost has bit my heart.’

“So ol’ Bill Hulk was flat on his back when I made Gingerbread Cove with supplies in the first o’ that season—anchored there in bed, sir, at last, with no mortal hope o’ makin’ the open sea again. Lord! how white an’ withered an’ cold he was! From what a far-off place in age an’ pain an’ weariness he looked back at me!

“‘I been waitin’, Tumm,’ says he. ‘Does you hear?’

“I bent close t’ hear.

“‘I’m in a hurry,’ says he. ‘Isn’t got no chance t’ pass the time o’ day. Does you hear?’

“‘Ay,’ says I.

“‘I got hopes,’ says he. ‘Tom Neverbudge haves come down t’ twenty-two seventy-five. You’ll find a old sock in the corner locker, Tumm,’ says he, ‘with my fortune in the toe. Pass un here. An’ hurry, Tumm, hurry, for I isn’t got much of a grip left! Now, Tumm,’ says he, ‘measure the swile oil in the stage an’ balance me up for the las’ time.’

“‘How much you got in that sock?’ says I.

“‘Nothin’ much,’ says he. ‘Jus’ a little left over.’

“‘But how much?’

“‘I’m not wantin’ t’ tell,’ says he, ‘lest you cheat me with kindness. I’d have you treat me as a man, come what will.’

“‘So help me God! then, Bill Hulk,’ says I, ‘I’ll strike that balance fair.’

“‘Tumm!’ he called.

“I turned in the door.

“‘Oh, make haste!’ says he.

“I measured the swile oil, neither givin’ nor takin’ a drop, an’ I boarded the Quick as Wink, where I struck ol’ Bill Hulk’s las’ balance, fair t’ the penny, as atween a man an’ a man. Ah! but ’twas hard, sir, t’ add no copper t’ the mean small total that faced me from the page: for the fortune in the toe o’ Bill Hulk’s ol’ sock was light enough, God knows! when I passed un over.

“‘Tumm,’ says he, ‘is it a honest balance?’

“‘It is,’ says I.

“‘Wait a minute!’ says he. ‘Jus’ a minute afore you tells me. I isn’t quite ready.’

“I watched the sun drop into the sea while I waited.

“‘Now,’ says he, ‘tell me quick!’

“‘Nine eighty-three,’ says I.

“’Add t’ that,’ says he, ‘the twelve ninety-three in the sock. Quick, Tumm!’ says he.

“I scribbled it out.

“‘Wait!’ says he. ‘Just a minute, Tumm, till I gets a better grip.’

“I seed ’twas growin’ quite gray in the west.

“‘Now!’ says he.

“‘Uncle Billy,’ roars I, ‘tis twenty-two seventy-six!’

“‘Send for Tom Neverbudge!’ cries he: ‘for I done it—thank God, I done it!’

“I fetched Tom Neverbudge with me own hands t’ trade that grave for the fortune o’ ol’ Bill Hulk,” Tumm proceeded, “an’ I seed for meself, as atween a party o’ the first part an’ a party o’ the second, that ’twas all aboveboard an’ ship-shape, makin’ what haste I was able, for Bill Hulk’s anchor chain showed fearful signs o’ givin’ out.

“‘Is it done?’ says he.

“‘All fast,’ says I.

“‘A plot an’ a penny left over!’ says he.

“‘A plot an’ a penny,’ says I.

“‘Tumm,’ says he, with a little smile, ‘I needs the plot, but you take the penny. ’Tis sort o’ surprisin’,’ says he, ‘an’ wonderful nice, too, t’ be able t’ make a bequest. I’d like t’ do it, Tumm,’ says he, ‘jus’ for the feel of it, if you don’t mind the size.’

“I ’lowed I’d take it an’ be glad.

“‘Look you! Bill Hulk,’ says Neverbudge, ‘if them graves is goin’ t’ trouble you, I’ll move un an’ pay the cost o’ labor. There, now!’ says he; ‘that’s kind enough.’

“Bill Hulk got up on his elbow. ‘What’ll you do along o’ my plot?’ says he.

“‘Move them graves,’ says Neverbudge.

“‘You leave my plot be, Tom Neverbudge!’ says Bill. ‘What you think I been wantin’ t’ lie in that plot for, anyhow?’

“Tom Neverbudge ’lowed he didn’t know.

“‘Why,’ says ol’ Bill Hulk, ‘jus’ t’ lie alongside them poor lonely little kids!’

“I let un fall back on the pillow.

“‘I’m through, Tumm,’ says he, ‘an’ I ’low I’ll quit.’

“Straightway he quit....”

Wind astern, moonlight and mist upon the sea, a serene and tender sky, with a multitude of stars benignantly peeping from its mystery: and the Good Samaritan dawdled on, wing and wing to the breeze, bound across from Sinners’ Tickle to Afterward Bight, there to deal for the first of the catch. Tumm looked up to the sky. He was smiling in a gentle, wistful way. A little psa’m from his Bible? Again I wondered concerning the lesson. “Wink away,” said he, “you little beggars! Wink away—wink away! You been lookin’ at this damned thing so long that no wonder you winks. Wink away! I’m glad you’ve the heart t’ do it. I’m not troubled by fears when you winks down, you’re so wonderful wiser’n we. Wink on, you knowin’ little beggars!”

This, then, it seemed, was the lesson.

THE END