In Which Little Jimmie Grimm Goes Lame and His Mother Discovers the Whereabouts of a Cure

“’Twould be like old times,” Jim Grimm said once, when Jimmie was put to bed, “if Jimmie was only well.”

“I’m afeared,” the mother sighed, “that he’ll never be well again.”

“For fear you’re right, mum,” said Jim Grimm, “we must make him happy every hour he’s with us. Hush, mother! Don’t cry, or I’ll be cryin’, too!”

Nobody connected Jimmie Grimm’s affliction with the savage teeth of Tog.

“I’ve found something, Jim Grimm,” said she, a teasing twinkle in her eye, when, that night, Jimmie’s father came in from the snowy wilderness, where he had made the round of his fox traps.

“Have you, now?” he asked, curiously. “What is it?”

“’Tis something,” said she, “t’ make you glad.”

“Come, tell me!” he cried, his eyes shining.

“I’ve heard you say,” she went on, smiling softly, “that you’d be willin’ t’ give anything t’ find it. I’ve heard you say that–––”

“’Tis a silver fox!”

“I’ve heard you say,” she continued, shaking her head, “‘Oh,’ I’ve heard you say, ‘if I could only find it I’d be happy.’”

She laid a hand on his shoulder. The remnant of the Montreal Weekly Globe and Family Messenger she held behind her.

“’Tis a cure for Jimmie,” said she.

“No!” he cried, incredulous; but there was yet the ring of hope in his voice. “Have you, now?”

“Hook’s Kurepain,” said she, “never failed yet.”

“’Tis wonderful!” said Jim Grimm.

She spread the newspaper on the table and placed her finger at that point of the list where the cure of rheumatism was promised.

“Read that,” said she, “an’ you’ll find ’tis all true.”

Jim Grimm’s eye ran up to the top of the page. His wife waited, a smile on her lips. She was anticipating a profound impression.

“‘Beauty has wonderful charms,’” Jim Grimm read. “‘Few men can withstand the witchcraft of a lovely face. All hearts are won–––’”

“Ay, sure!”

And thereupon Jim Grimm of Buccaneer Cove discovered that a legion of relieved and rejuvenated rheumatics had without remuneration or constraint sung the virtues of the Kurepain and the praises of Hook. Poor ignorant Jim Grimm did not for a moment doubt the existence of the Well-Known Traveller, the Family Doctor, the Minister of the Gospel, the Champion of the World. He was ready to admit that the cure had been found.

“I’m willin’ t’ believe,” said he, solemnly, the while gazing very earnestly into his wife’s eyes, “that ’twould do Jimmie a world o’ good.”

“Read on,” said she.

“‘It costs money to make the Kurepain,’” Jim read, aloud. “‘It is not a sugar-and-water remedy. It is a cure, manufactured at great expense. Good medicines come high. But the peerless Kurepain is cheap when compared with the worthless substitutes now on the market and sold for just as good. Our price is five dollars a bottle; three bottles guaranteed to cure.’”

“’Tis fearful!” he sighed.

“But read on,” said she.

“‘In order to introduce the Kurepain into this locality, we have set aside one thousand bottles of this incomparable medicine. That number, and no more, we will dispose of at four dollars a bottle. Do not make a mistake. When the supply is exhausted, the price will rise to eight dollars a bottle, owing to a scarcity of one of the ingredients. We honestly advise you, if you are in pain or suffering, to take advantage of this rare opportunity. A word to the wise is sufficient. Order to-day.’”

“’Tis a great bargain, Jim,” the mother whispered.

“Ay,” Jim answered, dubiously.

His wife patted his hand. “When Jimmie’s cured,” she went on, “he could help you with the traps, an’–––”

“Doesn’t you think, Jim, that we could manage it––if we tried wonderful hard?”

“’Tis accordin’ t’ what fur I traps, mum, afore the ice goes an’ the steamer comes. I’m hopin’ we’ll have enough left over t’ buy the cure.”

“You’re a good father, Jim,” the mother said, at last. “I knows you’ll do for the best. Leave us wait until the spring time comes.”

“Ay,” he agreed; “an’ we’ll say nar a word t’ little Jimmie.”

“We’ll be able t’ have one bottle, whatever,” said the mother.

“’Twill be more than that, mum,” Jim Grimm answered, confidently. “We wants our Jimmie cured.”

In Which Jimmie Grimm Surprises a Secret, Jim Grimm makes a Rash Promise, and a Tourist From the States Discovers the Marks of Tog’s Teeth

With spring came the great disappointment. The snow melted from the hills; wild flowers blossomed where the white carpet had lain; the ice was ready to break and move out to sea with the next wind from the west. There were no more foxes to be caught. Jim Grimm bundled the skins, strapped them on his back, and took them to the storekeeper at Shelter Harbour, five miles up the coast; and when their value had been determined he came home disconsolate.

Jimmie’s mother had been watching from the window. “Well?” she said, when the man came in.

“’Tis not enough,” he groaned. “I’m sorry, mum; but ’tis not enough.”

“’Twas a fair price he gave me,” Jim Grimm continued. “I’m not complainin’ o’ that. But there’s not enough t’ do more than keep us in food, with pinchin’, till we sells the fish in the fall. I’m sick, mum––I’m fair sick an’ miserable along o’ disappointment.”

“’Tis sad t’ think,” said the mother, “that Jimmie’s not t’ be cured––after all.”

“For the want o’ twelve dollars!” he sighed.

They were interrupted by the clatter of Jimmie’s crutches, coming in haste from the inner room. Then entered Jimmie.

“I heered what you said,” he cried, his eyes blazing, his whole worn little body fairly quivering with excitement. “I heered you say ’cure.’ Is I t’ be cured?”

They did not answer.

“Father! Mama! Did you say I was t’ be cured?”

“Hush, dear!” said the mother.

“I can’t hush. I wants t’ know. Father, tell me. Is I t’ be cured?”

“Jim,” said the mother to Jim Grimm, “tell un.”

The matter of credit was easily managed. The old storekeeper at Shelter Harbour did not hesitate. Credit? Of course, he would give Jim Grimm that. “Jim,” said he, “I’ve knowed you for a long time, an’ I knows you t’ be a good man. I’ll fit you out for the summer an’ the winter, if you wants me to, an’ you can take your own time about payin’ the bill.” And so Jim Grimm withdrew twelve dollars from the credit of his account.

They began to keep watch on the ice––to wish for a westerly gale, that the white waste might be broken and dispersed.

“Father,” said Jimmie, one night, when the man was putting him to bed, “how long will it be afore that there Kurepain comes?”

“I ’low the steamer’ll soon be here.”

“Ay?”

“An’ then she’ll take the letter with the money.”

“Ay?”

“An’ she’ll be gone about a month an’ a fortnight, an’ then she’ll be back with–––”

“Go t’ sleep, lad.”

“I can’t,” Jimmie whispered. “I can’t for joy o’ thinkin’ o’ that cure.”

By and by the ice moved out, and, in good time, the steamer came. It was at the end of a blustering day, with the night falling thick. Passengers and crew alike––from the grimy stokers to the shivering American tourists––were relieved to learn, when the anchor went down with a splash and a rumble, that the “old man” was to “hang her down” until the weather turned “civil.”

Accompanied by the old schoolmaster, who was to lend him aid in registering the letter to the Kurepain Company, Jim Grimm went aboard in the punt. It was then dark.

“You knows a Yankee when you sees one,” said he, when they reached the upper deck. “Point un out, an’ I’ll ask un.”

Thus it came about that Jim Grimm timidly approached two gentlemen who were chatting merrily in the lee of the wheel-house.

“Do you know the Kurepain, sir?” he asked.

“Eh? What?” the one replied.

“Hook’s, sir.”

“Hook’s? In the name of wonder, man, Hook’s what?”

“Kurepain, sir.”

“Hook’s Kurepain,” said the stranger. “Doctor,” addressing his companion, “do you recommend–––”

The doctor shrugged his shoulders.

“Then you do not?” said the other.

The doctor eyed Jim Grimm. “Why do you ask?” he inquired.

The doctor was silent for a moment. “Where do you live?” he asked, at last.

Jim pointed to a far-off light. “Jimmie will be at that window,” he said, “lookin’ out at the steamer’s lights.”

“Do you care for a run ashore?” asked the doctor, turning to his fellow tourist.

“If it would not overtax you.”

“No, no––I’m strong enough, now. The voyage has put me on my feet again. Come––let us go.”

When they called Jim Grimm in again––he knew what they were about, and it seemed a long, long time before the call came––little Jimmie was lying on the couch, sick and pale, with his knee tightly bandaged, but with his eyes glowing.

“Mama! Father!” the boy whispered, exultantly. “They says I’m cured.”

When the doctor was about to step from the punt to the steamer’s ladder, half an hour later, Jim Grimm held up a letter to him.

“’Tis for you, sir,” he said.

“What’s this?” the doctor demanded.

“’Tis for you to keep, sir,” Jim answered, with dignity. “’Tis the money for the work you done.”

“Money!” cried the doctor. “Why, really,” he stammered, “I––you see, this is my vacation––and I–––”

“I ’low, sir,” said Jim, quietly, “that you’ll ’blige me.”

“Well, well!” exclaimed the doctor, being wise, “that I will!”

Jimmie Grimm got well long before it occurred to his father that the fishing at Buccaneer Cove was poor and that he might do better elsewhere.

In Which Jimmie Grimm Moves to Ruddy Cove and Settles on the Slope of the Broken Nose, Where, Falling in With Billy Topsail and Donald North, He Finds the Latter a Coward, But Learns the Reason, and Scoffs no Longer. In Which, Also, Donald North Leaps a Breaker to Save a Salmon Net, and Acquires a Strut

And Donald North was.

Jimmie Grimm, himself no coward in a blow of wind, was inclined to scoff, at first; but Billy Topsail explained, and then Jimmie Grimm scoffed no longer, but hoped that Donald North would be cured of fear before he was much older. As Billy Topsail made plain to the boy, in excuse of his friend, Donald North was brave enough until he was eight years old; but after the accident of that season he was so timid that he shrank from the edge of the cliff when the breakers were beating the rocks below, and trembled when his father’s fishing punt heeled to the faintest gust.

“Billy,” he had said to Billy Topsail, on the unfortunate day when he caught the fear, being then but a little chap, “leave us go sail my new fore-an’-after. I’ve rigged her out with a fine new mizzens’l.”

“Sure, b’y!” said Billy. “Where to?”

“Uncle George’s wharf-head. ’Tis a place as good as any.”

The tide had fallen somewhat and was still on the ebb. Donald found it a long reach from the wharf to the water. By and by, as the water ran out of the harbour, the most he could do was to touch the tip of the mast of the miniature ship with his fingers. Then a little gust of wind crept round the corner of the wharf, rippling the water as it came near. It caught the sails of the new fore-and-after, and the little craft fell over on another tack and shot away.

“Here, you!” Donald cried. “Come back, will you?”

He reached for the mast. His fingers touched it, but the boat escaped before they closed. He laughed, hitched nearer to the edge of the wharf, and reached again. The wind had failed; the little boat was tossing in the ripples, below and just beyond his grasp.

Billy looked up, and laughed to see Donald’s awkward position––to see him hanging over the water, red-faced and straining. Donald laughed, too. At once he lost his balance and fell forward.

This was in the days before he could swim, so he floundered about in the water, beating it wildly, to bring himself to the surface. When he came up, Billy Topsail was leaning over to catch him. Donald lifted his arm. His fingers touched Billy’s, that was all––just touched them.

Then he sank; and when he came up again, and again lifted his arm, there was half a foot of space between his hand and Billy’s. Some measure of self-possession returned. He took a long breath, and let himself sink. Down he went, weighted by his heavy boots.

Those moments were full of the terror of which, later, he could not rid himself. There seemed to be no end to the depth of the water in that place. But when his feet touched bottom, he was still deliberate in all that he did.

In Ruddy Cove all the men put out their salmon nets when the ice breaks up and drifts away southward, for the spring run of salmon then begins. These nets are laid in the sea, at right angles to the rocks and extending out from them; they are set alongshore, it may be a mile or two, from the narrow passage to the harbour. The outer end is buoyed and anchored, and the other is lashed to an iron stake which is driven deep into some crevice of the rock.

When belated icebergs hang offshore a watch must be kept on the nets, lest they be torn away or ground to pulp by the ice.

“The wind’s haulin’ round a bit, b’y,” said Donald’s father, one day in spring, when the lad was twelve years old, and he was in the company of Jimmie Grimm and Billy Topsail on the sunny slope of the Broken Nose. “I think ’twill freshen and blow inshore afore night.”

“They’s a scattered pan of ice out there, father,” said Donald, “and three small bergs.”

Jimmie Grimm glanced at Billy Topsail; and Billy Topsail glanced at Jimmie Grimm.

“Wh-wh-what, sir?” Donald stammered.

It was quite evident that the net was in danger, but since Donald had first shown sign of fearing the sea, Job North had not compelled him to go out upon perilous undertakings. He had fallen into the habit of leaving the boy to choose his own course, believing that in time he would master himself.

“I says,” he repeated, quietly, “does you think that net’s in danger?”

Billy Topsail nudged Jimmie Grimm. They walked off together. It would never do to witness a display of Donald’s cowardice.

“He’ll not go,” Jimmie Grimm declared.

“’Tis not so sure,” said Billy.

“I tell you,” Jimmie repeated, confidently, “that he’ll never go out t’ save that net.” “But!” he added; “he’ll have no heart for the leap.”

“I think he’ll go,” Billy insisted.

In the meantime Job North had stood regarding his son.

“I think, sir,” said Donald, steadily, between his teeth, “that the net should come in.”

Job North patted the boy on the back. “’Twould be wise, b’y,” said he, smiling. “Come, b’y; we’ll go fetch it.”

“So long, Don!” Billy Topsail shouted delightedly.

Donald and his father put out in the punt. There was a fair, fresh wind, and with this filling the little brown sail, they were soon driven out from the quiet water of the harbour to the heaving sea itself. Great swells rolled in from the open and broke furiously against the coast rocks. The punt ran alongshore for two miles, keeping well away from the breakers. When at last she came to that point where Job North’s net was set, Donald furled the sail and his father took up the oars.

“’Twill be a bit hard to land,” he said.

The iron stake to which Job North’s net was lashed was fixed in a low ledge, upon which some hardy shrubs had taken root. The waves were casting themselves against the rocks below, breaking with a great roar and flinging spray over the ledge.

“’Twill be a bit hard,” North said again.

But the salmon-fishers have a way of landing under such conditions. When their nets are in danger they do not hesitate. The man at the oars lets the boat drift with the breaker stern foremost towards the rocks. His mate leaps from the stern seat to the ledge. Then the other pulls the boat out of danger before the wave curls and breaks. It is the only way.

But sometimes the man in the stern miscalculates––leaps too soon, stumbles, leaps short. He falls back, and is almost inevitably drowned. Sometimes, too, the current of the wave is too strong for the man at the oars; his punt is swept in, pull as hard as he may, and he is overwhelmed with her. Donald knew all this. He had lived in dread of the time when he must first make that leap.

“No, sir,” said Donald.

“You never leaped afore, did you?”

“No, sir.”

“Will you try it now, b’y?” said North, quietly.

“Yes, sir,” Donald said, faintly.

“Get ready, then,” said North.

With a stroke or two of the oars Job swung the stern of the boat to the rocks. He kept her hanging in this position until the water fell back and gathered in a new wave; then he lifted his oars. Donald was crouched on the stern seat, waiting for the moment to rise and spring.

The boat moved in, running on the crest of the wave which would a moment later break against the rock. Donald stood up, and fixed his eye on the ledge. He was afraid; all the strength and courage he possessed seemed to desert him. The punt was now almost on a level with the ledge. The wave was about to curl and fall. It was the precise moment when he must leap––that instant, too, when the punt must be pulled out of the grip of the breaker, if at all.

Billy Topsail and Jimmie Grimm were at this critical moment hanging off Grief Island, in the lee, whence they could see all that occurred. They had come out to watch the issue of Donald’s courage.

“He’ll never leap,” Jimmie exclaimed.

“He will,” said Billy.

“He’ll not,” Jimmie declared.

“Look!” cried Billy.

Donald felt of a sudden that he must do this thing. Therefore why not do it courageously? He leaped; but this new courage had not come in time. He made the ledge, but he fell an inch short of a firm footing. So for a moment he tottered, between falling forward and falling back. Then he caught the branch of an overhanging shrub, and with this saved himself. When he turned, Job had the punt in safety; but he was breathing hard, as if the strain had been great.

“’Twas not so hard, was it, b’y?” said Job.

“No, sir,” said Donald.

“I told you so,” said Billy Topsail to Jimmie Grimm.

“Good b’y!” Jimmie declared, as he hoisted the sail for the homeward run.

It was well they had gone out, for before morning the ice had drifted over the place where the net had been. More than that, Donald North profited by his experience. He perceived that if perils must be encountered, they are best met with a clear head and an unflinching heart.

“Wisht you’d been out t’ see me jump the day,” he said to Jimmie Grimm, that night.

Billy and Jimmie laughed.

“Wisht you had,” Donald repeated.

“We was,” said Jimmie.

Donald threw back his head, puffed out his chest, dug his hands in his pockets and strutted off. It was the first time, poor lad! he had ever won the right to swagger in the presence of Jimmie Grimm and Billy Topsail. To be sure, he made the most of it!

But he was not yet cured.

In Which, Much to the Delight of Jimmie Grimm and Billy Topsail, Donald North, Having Perilous Business On a Pan of Ice After Night, is Cured of Fear, and Once More Puffs Out His Chest and Struts Like a Rooster

Like many another snug little harbour on the northeast coast of Newfoundland, Ruddy Cove is confronted by the sea and flanked by a vast wilderness; so all the folk take their living from the sea, as their forebears have done for generations. In the gales and high seas of the summer following, and in the blinding snow-storms and bitter cold of the winter, Donald North grew in fine readiness to face peril at the call of duty. All that he had gained was put to the test in the next spring, when the floating ice, which drifts out of the north in the spring break-up, was driven by the wind against the coast.

After that adventure, Jimmie Grimm said:

“You’re all right, Don!”

And Billy Topsail said:

Donald North, himself, stuck his hands in his pockets, threw out his chest, spat like a skipper and strutted like a rooster.

“I ’low I is!” said he.

And he was. And nobody decried his little way of boasting, which lasted only for a day; and everybody was glad that at last he was like other boys.

Job North, with Alexander Bludd and Bill Stevens, went out on the ice to hunt seal. The hunt led them ten miles offshore. In the afternoon of that day the wind gave some sign of changing to the west, and at dusk it was blowing half a gale offshore. When the wind blows offshore it sweeps all this wandering ice out to sea, and disperses the whole pack.

“Go see if your father’s comin’, b’y,” said Donald’s mother. “I’m gettin’ terrible nervous about the ice.”

When he came to the “standing edge”––the stationary rim of ice which is frozen to the coast––the wind was thickly charged with snow. What with dusk and snow, he found it hard to keep to the right way. But he was not afraid for himself; his only fear was that the wind would sweep the ice-pack out to sea before his father reached the standing edge. In that event, as he knew, Job North would be doomed.

Donald went out on the standing edge. Beyond lay a widening gap of water. The pack had already begun to move out.

There was no sign of Job North’s party. The lad ran up and down, hallooing as he ran; but for a time there was no answer to his call. Then it seemed to him that he heard a despairing hail, sounding far to the right, whence he had come. Night had almost fallen, and the snow added to its depth; but as he ran back Donald could still see across the gap of water to the great pan of ice, which, of all the pack, was nearest to the standing edge. He perceived that the gap had considerably widened since he had first observed it.

“Ay, Donald,” came an answering hail from directly opposite. “Is there a small pan of ice on your side?”

Donald searched up and down the standing edge for a detached cake large enough for his purpose. Near at hand he came upon a small, thin pan, not more than six feet square.

“Haste, b’y!” cried his father.

“They’s one here,” he called back, “but ’tis too small. Is there none there?”

“No, b’y. Fetch that over.”

Here was desperate need. If the lad were to meet it, he must act instantly and fearlessly. He stepped out on the pan and pushed off with his gaff. Using his gaff as a paddle––as these gaffs are constantly used in ferrying by the Newfoundland fishermen––and helped by the wind, he soon ferried himself to where Job North stood waiting with his companions.

“’Tis too small,” said Stevens. “’Twill not hold two.”

North looked dubiously at the pan. Alexander Bludd shook his head in despair.

“I thinks ’tis big enough for one man an’ me,” said Donald.

“Get aboard an’ try it, Alexander,” said Job. “Quick, man!”

Alexander Bludd stepped on. The pan tipped fearfully, and the water ran over it; but when the weight of the man and the boy was properly adjusted, it seemed capable of bearing them both across. They pushed off, and seemed to go well enough; but when Alexander moved to put his gaff in the water the pan tipped again. Donald came near losing his footing. He moved nearer the edge and the pan came to a level. They paddled with all their strength, for the wind was blowing against them, and there was need of haste if three passages were to be made. Meantime the gap had grown so wide that the wind had turned the ripples into waves, which washed over the pan as high as Donald’s ankles.

But they came safely across. Bludd stepped swiftly ashore, and Donald pushed off. With the wind in his favour he was soon once more at the other side.

“Now, Bill,” said North; “your turn next.”

“We’re driftin’ out too fast. He’s your lad, an’ you’ve the right to–––”

“Ay, I can come back,” said Donald. “Come on, Bill! Be quick!”

Stevens was a lighter man than Alexander Bludd; but the passage was wider, and still widening, for the pack had gathered speed. When Stevens was safely landed he looked back. A vast white shadow was all that he could see. Job North’s figure had been merged with the night.

“Donald, b’y,” he said, “you got t’ go back for your father, but I’m fair feared you’ll never–––”

“Give me a push, Bill,” said Donald.

Stevens caught the end of the gaff and pushed the lad out.

“Good-bye, Donald,” he called.

They made way slowly. The pan often wavered beneath them; but Donald was intent upon the thing he was doing, and he was not afraid. Then came the time––they were but ten yards off the standing edge––when North struck his gaff too deep into the water. He lost his balance, struggled to regain it, failed––and fell off. Before Donald was awake to the danger, the edge of the pan sank under him, and he, too, toppled off.

Donald had learned to swim now. When he came to the surface, his father was breast-high in the water, looking for him.

“Are you all right, Donald?” said his father.

“Yes, sir.”

“Can you reach the ice alone?”

“Yes, sir,” said Donald, quietly.

Alexander Bludd and Bill Stevens helped them up on the standing edge, and they were home by the kitchen fire in half an hour.

“’Twas bravely done, b’y,” said Job.

In Which Bagg, Imported From the Gutters of London, Lands At Ruddy Cove From the Mail-Boat, Makes the Acquaintance of Jimmie Grimm and Billy Topsail, and Tells Them ’E Wants to Go ’Ome. In Which, Also, the Way to Catastrophe Is Pointed

It was on such a morning that Bagg, the London gutter-snipe, having been landed at Ruddy Cove from the mail-boat the night before––this being in the fall before Donald North played ferryman between the standing edge and the floe––it was on such a foggy morning, I say, that Bagg made the acquaintance of Billy Topsail and Jimmie Grimm.

“Hello!” said Billy Topsail.

“Hello!” Jimmie Grimm echoed.

“You blokes live ’ere?” Bagg whined.

“Uh-huh,” said Billy Topsail.

“This yer ’ome?” pursued Bagg.

Billy nodded.

“Wisht I was ’ome!” sighed Bagg. “I say,” he added, “which way’s ’ome from ’ere?”

“You mean Skipper ’Zekiel’s cottage?”

“I mean Lun’on,” said Bagg.

“Don’t know,” Billy answered. “You better ask Uncle Tommy Luff. He’ll tell you.”

Later in the day, old Uncle Tommy Luff, just in from the fishing grounds off the Mull, where he had been jigging for stray cod all day long, had moored his punt to the stage-head, and he was now coming up the path with his sail over his shoulder, his back to the wide, flaring sunset. Bagg sat at the turn to Squid Cove, disconsolate. The sky was heavy with glowing clouds, and the whole earth was filled with a glory such as he had not known before.

“Shall I arst the ol’ beggar when ’e gets ’ere?” mused Bagg.

Uncle Tommy looked up with a smile.

“I say, mister,” piped Bagg, when the old man came abreast, “which way’s ’ome from ’ere?”

“’Ome, sir. Which way is ’ome from ’ere?”

In that one word Bagg’s sickness of heart expressed itself––in the quivering, wistful accent.

“Is you ’Zekiel Rideout’s lad?” said Uncle Tommy.

“Don’t yer make no mistake, mister,” said Bagg, somewhat resentfully. “I ain’t nothink t’ nobody.”

“I knowed you was that lad,” Uncle Tommy drawled, “when I seed the size o’ you. Sure, b’y, you knows so well as me where ’Zekiel’s place is to. ’Tis t’ the head o’ Burnt Cove, there, with the white railin’, an’ the tater patch aft o’ the place where they spreads the fish. Sure, you knows the way home.”

“I mean Lun’on, mister,” Bagg urged.

“Oh, home!” said Uncle Tommy. “When I was a lad like you, b’y, just here from the West Country, me fawther told me if I steered a course out o’ the tickle an’ kept me starn fair for the meetin’-house, I’d sure get home t’ last.”

“Which way, mister?”

Uncle Tommy pointed out to sea––to that far place in the east where the dusk was creeping up over the horizon.

Then Uncle Tommy shifted his sail to the other shoulder and trudged on up the hill; and Bagg threw himself on the ground and wept until his sobs convulsed his scrawny little body.

“I want to go ’ome!” he sobbed. “I want to go ’ome!”

No wonder that Bagg, London born and bred, wanted to go home to the crowd and roar and glitter of the streets to which he had been used. It was fall in Ruddy Cove, when the winds are variable and gusty, when the sea is breaking under the sweep of a freshening breeze and yet heaving to the force of spent gales. Fogs, persistently returning with the east wind, filled the days with gloom and dampness. Great breakers beat against the harbour rocks; the swish and thud of them never ceased, nor was there any escape from it.

Thus the fall passed, when the catching and splitting and drying of fish was a distraction. Then came the winter––short, drear days, mere breaks in the night, when there was no relief from the silence and vasty space round about, and the dark was filled with the terrors of snow and great winds and loneliness. At last the spring arrived, when the ice drifted out of the north in vast floes, bearing herds of hair-seal within reach of the gaffs of the harbour folk, and was carried hither and thither with the wind.

Then there came a day when the wind gathered the dumpers and pans in one broad mass and jammed it against the coast. The sea, where it had lain black and fretful all winter long, was now covered and hidden. The ice stretched unbroken from the rocks of Ruddy Cove to the limit of vision in the east. And Bagg marvelled. There seemed to be a solid path from Ruddy Cove straight away in the direction in which Uncle Tommy Luff had said that England lay.

“I want to go ’ome,” he often said to Billy Topsail and Jimmie Grimm.

“What for?” Billy once demanded.

“Don’t know,” Bagg replied. “I jus’ want to go ’ome.”

At last Bagg formed a plan.