“Very, very poor! Frankly, Brother All, I was troubled. Yes, indeed! I was troubled. I knew they were poor, and I didn’t know whether it was wise or right to put you there. I feared that you might fare rather badly. But there was nothing else to do. I sincerely hope—”

Parson All raised a hand in protest.

“You was fixed all right?” Parson Jaunt asked.

“Yes, brother,” answered Parson All, in genuine appreciation of the hospitality he had received. “It was touching. Praise the Lord! I’m glad to know that such people live in a selfish world like this. It was very, very touching.”

Parson Jaunt’s face expressed some surprise.

“Do you know what they did?” said Parson All, taking Parson Jaunt by the lapel of the coat and staring deep into his eyes. “Do you know what they did?”

Parson Jaunt wagged his head.

“Why, brother,” Parson All declared, with genuinely grateful tears in his eyes, “when I told Skipper Jonathan that brewis soured on my stomach, he got me tinned beef, and butter, and canned peaches, and cheese. I’ll never forget his goodness. Never!”

Parson Jaunt stared. “What a wonderful thing Christianity is!” he exclaimed. “What a wonderful, wonderful thing! By their fruits,” he quoted, “ye shall know them.”

The Black Bay clergy were called aboard. Parson Jaunt shook off the mild old Parson All and rushed to the Chairman of the District, his black coat-tails flying in the easterly wind, and wrung the Chairman’s hand, and jovially laughed until his jolly little paunch shook like jelly....

That night, in the whitewashed cottage upon which the angry gale beat, Skipper Jonathan and Aunt Tibbie sat together by the kitchen fire. Skipper Jonathan was hopelessly in from the sea—from the white waves thereof, and the wind, and the perilous night—and Aunt Tibbie had dressed the sores on his wrists. The twins and all the rest of the little crew were tucked away and sound asleep.

Skipper Jonathan sighed.

“What was you thinkin’ about, Jonathan?” Aunt Tibbie asked.

“Jus’ ponderin’,” said he.

“Ay; but what upon?”

“Well, Tibbie,” Jonathan answered, in embarrassment, “I was jus’—ponderin’.”

“What is it, Jonathan?”

“I was ’lowin’, Tibbie,” Jonathan admitted, “that it wouldn’t be so easy—no, not so easy—t’ do without that sweetness in my tea.”

Aunt Tibbie sighed.

“What you thinkin’ about, dear?” Jonathan asked.

“I got a sinful hankerin’,” Aunt Tibbie answered, repeating the sigh.

“Is you, dear?”

“I got a sinful hankerin’,” said she, “for that there bottle o’ hair-restorer. For I don’t want t’ go bald! God forgive me,” she cried, in an agony of humiliation, “for this vanity!”

“Hush, dear!” Jonathan whispered, tenderly; “for I loves you, bald or not!”

But Aunt Tibbie burst out crying.

VII—“BY-AN’-BY” BROWN OF BLUNDER COVE

There was no secret about the baby. Young Brown was a bachelor of the outports: even so, there was still no secret about the baby. Nonsense! It was not “By-an’-by’s.” It never had been. Name? Tweak. Given name? She. What! Well, then, It! Age? Recent—somewheres ’long about midsummer. Blunder Cove was amazed, but, being used to sudden peril, to misfortune, and strange chances, was not incredulous. Blunder Cove was sympathetic: so sympathetic, indeed, so quick to minister and to assist, that “By-an’-by” Brown, aged fifteen, having taken but transient shelter for the child, remained to rear it, forever proposing, however, to proceed—by-and-by. So there they were, “By-an’-by” Brown and the baby! And the baby was not “By-an’-by’s.” Everybody knew it—even the baby: perhaps best of all.

“By-an’-by” Brown had adopted the baby at Back Yard Bight of the Labrador. There had been nothing else to do. It was quite out of the question, whatever the proprieties, whatever the requirements of babies and the inadequacy of bachelors—it was quite out of the question for “By-an’-by” Brown, being a bachelor of tender years and perceptions, to abandon even a baby at Back Yard Bight of the Labrador, having first assisted at the interment of the mother and then instantly lost trace of the delinquent father. The monstrous expedient had not even occurred to him; he made a hasty bundle of the baby and took flight for more populous neighborhoods, commanding advice, refuge, and infinitely more valuable assistance from the impoverished settlements by the way. And thereafter he remembered the bleak and lonely reaches of Back Yard Bight as a stretch of coast where he had been considerably alarmed.

It had been a wet night when “By-an’-by” Brown and the baby put into Blunder Cove—wind in the east, the sea in a tumble: a wet night, and late of it. All the windows were black; and the paths of the place—a water-side maze in the lee of great hills—were knee-deep in a flood of darkness. “By-an’-by” Brown was downcast: this because of his years. He was a lad of fifteen. Fifteen, mark you!—a gigantic fifteen: a wise and competent fifteen, too, having for seven years fended for itself in the turf huts of the Labrador and the forecastles of the lower coasts. But still, for the moment, he was downcast by the burden upon his youth. So he knocked diffidently at the first kitchen door; and presently he stood abashed in a burst of warm light from within.

Shelter? Oh, ay! T’ be sure. But (in quick and resentful suspicion):

“B’y,” Aunt Phoebe Luff demanded, “what ye got in them ile-skins? Pups?”

“By-an’-by” Brown observed that there were embers in the kitchen stove, that steam was faintly rising from the spout of the kettle.

“Baby,” said he.

Aunt Phoebe jumped. “What!” cried she:

“Jus’ a baby,” said “By-an’-by” Brown. “Well!—you give that there baby here.”

“I’ll be glad t’, ma’am,” said young “By-an’-by” Brown, in childish tenderness, still withholding the bundle from the woman’s extended arms, “but not for keeps.”

“For keeps!” Aunt Phoebe snorted.

“No, ma’am; not for keeps. I’m ’lowin’ t’ fetch it up myself,” said “By-an’-by” Brown, “by-an’-by.”

“Dunderhead!” Aunt Phoebe whispered, softly.

And “By-an’-by” Brown, familiar with the exigency, obediently went in.

Then there were lights in the cottages of Blunder Cove: instantly, it seemed. And company—and tea and hard bread and chatter—in Skipper Tom Luff’s little white kitchen. A roaring fire in the stove: a kettle that sang and chuckled and danced, glad once more to be engaged in the real business of life. So was the cradle—glad to be useful again, though its activity had been but for an hour suspended. It went to work in a business-like way, with never a creak, in response to the gentle toe of “By-an’-by” Brown’s top-boot. There was an inquisition, too, through which “By-an’-by” Brown crooned to the baby, “Hush-a-by!” and absently answered, “Uh-huh!” and “By-an’-by!” as placid as could be. Concerning past troubles: Oh, they was—yesterday. And of future difficulties: Well, they was—by-an’-by. “Hush-a-by!” and “By-an’-by!” So they gave him a new name—“By-an’-by” Brown—because he was of those whose past is forgot in yesterday and whose future is no more inimical than—well, jus’ by-an’-by.

“By-an’-by” Brown o’ Blunder Cove—paddle-punt fishin’ the Blow-me-down grounds....

It had not been for keeps. “By-an’-by” Brown resisted in a fashion so resolute that no encroachment upon his rights was accomplished by Aunt Phoebe Luff. He had wandered too long alone to be willing to yield up a property in hearts once he possessed it. And Blunder Cove approved. The logic was simple: If “By-an’-by” Brown took the child t’ raise, why, then, nobody else would have t’. The proceeding was never regarded as extraordinary. Nobody said, “How queer!” It was looked upon merely as a commendably philanthropic undertaking on the part of “By-an’-by” Brown; the accident of his sex and situation had nothing to do with the problem. Thus, when Aunt Phoebe’s fostering care was no longer imperative “By-an’-by” Brown said Now for the first time in his life, and departed with the baby. By that time, of course, there was an establishment: a whitewashed cottage by the water-side, a stage, a flake, a punt—all the achievement of “By-an’-by’s” own hands. A new account, too: this on the ledger of Wull & Company, trading the French Shore with the Always Loaded, putting in off and on.

“By-an’-by’s” baby began to grow perceptibly. “By-an’-by” just kept on growing, ’lowin’ t’ stop sometime—by-an’-by. It happened—by-an’-by. This was when he was two-and-twenty: by which time, according to enthusiastic observers from a more knowing and appreciative world, he was Magnificent. The splendor consisted, it was said, in bulk, muscle, and the like, somewhat, too, perhaps, in poise and glance; but Blunder Cove knew that these external and relatively insignificant aspects were transcended by the spiritual graces which “By-an’-by” Brown displayed. He was religious; but it must be added that he was amiable. A great, tender, devoted dog: “By-an’-by” Brown. This must be said for him: that if he by-an’-byed the unpleasant necessities into a future too distant to be troublesome, he by-an’-byed the appearance of evil to the same far exile. After all, it may be a virtue to practise the art of by-an’-bying.

As for the baby at this period, the age of seven years, the least said the less conspicuous the failure to say anything adequate. Language was never before so helplessly mocked. It may be ventured, however, to prove the poverty of words, that dispassionately viewed through the eyes of “By-an’-by” Brown, she was angelic. “Jus’ a wee li’l’ mite of a angel!” said he. Of course, this is not altogether original, nor is it specific; but it satisfied “By-an’-by” Brown’s idea of perfection. A slim little slip of a maid of the roguishly sly and dimpled sort: a maid of delicate fashioning, exquisite of feature—a maid of impulsive affections. Exact in everything; and exacting, too—in a captivating way. And herein was propagated the germ of disquietude for “By-an’-by” Brown: promising, indeed (fostered by the folly of procrastination), a more tragic development. “By-an’-by’s” baby was used to saying, You told me so. Also, But you promised. The particular difficulty confronting “By-an’-by” Brown was the baby’s insistent curiosity, not inconsistent with the age of seven, concerning the whereabouts of her father and the time and manner of his return.

Brown had piqued it into being: just by saying—“By-an’-by!”

“Ay,” says she; “but when will he be comin’ back?”

“Why,” he answered, bewildered—“by-an’-by!”

It was a familiar evasion. The maid frowned. “Is you sure?” she demanded, sceptically.

“Ye bet ye!” he was prompt to reply, feeling bound now, to convince her, whatever came of it; “he’ll be comin’ back—by-an’-by.”

“Well, then,” said the maid, relieved, “I s’pose so.”

Brown had never disclosed the brutal delinquency of Long Bill Tweak. Not to the maid, because he could not wound her; not to Blunder Cove, because he would not shame her. The revelation must be made, of course; but not now—by-an’-by. The maid knew that her mother was dead beyond recall: no mystery was ever made of that; and there ended the childish wish and wonder concerning that poor woman. But her father? Here was an inviting mystery. No; he was not what you might call dead—jus’ sort o’ gone away. Would he ever come back? Oh, sure! no need o’ frettin’ about that; he’d be back—by-an’-by. Had “By-an’-by” Brown said Never, the problem would have been dieposed of, once and for all: the fretting over with, once and for all. But what he said was this uncourageous and specious by-an’-by. So the maid waited in interested speculation: then impatiently. For she was used to saying, You told me so. Also, But then you promised.

As by-an’-by overhauled by-an’-by in the days of “By-an’-by” Brown, and as the ultimate by-an’-by became imminent, “By-an’-by” Brown was ever more disquieted.

“But,” says the maid, “‘by-an’-by’ is never.”

“Oh, my, no!” he protested.

She tapped the tip of his nose with a long little forefinger, and emphasized every word with a stouter tap. “Yes—it—is!” said she.

“Not never,” cried “By-an’-by” Brown.

“Then,” says she, “is it to-morrow?”

Brown violently shook his head.

“Is it nex’ week?”

“Goodness, no!”

“Well,” she insisted—and she took “By-an’-by’s” face between her palms and drew it close to search his eyes—“is it nex’ year?”

“Maybe.”

She touched the tip of her white little nose to the sunburned tip of his. “But is it?” she persisted.

“Uh-huh,” said “By-an’-by” Brown, recklessly, quite overcome, committing himself beyond redemption; “nex’ year.”

And “By-an’-by’s” baby remembered....

Next year began, of course, with the first day of January. And a day with wind and snow it was! Through the interval of three months preceding, Brown had observed the approach of this veritable by-an’-by with rising alarm. And on New Year’s Day, why, there it was: by-an’-by come at last! “By-an’-by” Brown, though twenty-two, was frightened. No wonder! Hitherto his life had not been perturbed by insoluble bewilderments. But how to produce Long Bill Tweak from the mist into which he had vanished at Back Yard Bight of the Labrador seven years ago? It was beyond him. Who could call Bill Tweak from seven years of time and the very waste places of space? Not “By-an’-by” Brown, who could only ponder and sigh and scratch his curly head. And here was the maid, used to saying, as maids of seven will, But you told me so! and, You promised! So “By-an’-by” Brown was downcast as never before; but before the day was spent he conceived that the unforeseen might yet fortuitously issue in the salvation of himself and the baby.

“Maybe,” thought he—“by-an’-by!”

As January progressed the maid grew more eager and still more confident. He promised, thinks she; also, He told me so. There were times, as the terrified Brown observed, when this eagerness so possessed the child that she trembled in a fashion to make him shiver. She would start from her chair by the stove when a knock came late o’ windy nights on the kitchen door; she would stare up the frozen harbor to the Tickle by day—peep through the curtains, interrupt her housewifely duties to keep watch at the window.

“Anyhow, he will come,” says she, quite confidently, “by-an’-by.”

“Uh-huh!” Brown must respond.

What was a shadow upon the gentle spirit of “By-an’-by” Brown was the sunlight of certain expectation irradiating “By-an’-by’s” baby. But the maid fell ill. Nobody knew why. Suspicion dwelled like a skeleton with “By-an’-by” Brown; but this he did not divulge to Blunder Cove. Nothin’ much the matter along o’ she, said the Cove; jus’ a little spell o’ somethin’ or other. It was a childish indisposition, perhaps—but come with fever and pallor and a poignant restlessness. “By-an’-by” Brown had never before known how like to a black cloud the future of a man might be. At any rate, she must be put to bed: whereupon, of course, “By-an’-by” Brown indefinitely put off going to bed, having rather stand watch, he said. It was presently a question at Blunder Cove: who was the more wan and pitiable, “By-an’-by’s” baby, being sick, or “By-an’-by,” being anxious? And there was no cure anywhere to be had—no cure for either. “By-an’-by” Brown conceived that the appearance of Long Bill Tweak would instantly work a miracle upon the maid. But where was Bill Tweak? There was no magic at hand to accomplish the feat of summoning a scamp from Nowhere!

One windy night “By-an’-by” Brown sat with the child to comfort her. “I ’low,” he drawled, “that you wisht a wonderful sight that your father was here.”

“Uh-huh!” the maid exclaimed.

Brown sighed. “I s’pose,” he muttered.

“Is he comin’?” she demanded.

“Oh—by-an’-by!”

“I wisht ’twas now,” said she. “That I does!”

Brown listened to the wind. It was blowing high and bitterly: a winter wind, with snow from the northeast. “By-an’-by” was troubled.

“I ’low,” said he, hopelessly, “that you’ll love un a sight, won’t ye?—when he comes?”

“Ye bet ye!” the maid answered.

“More’n ye love—some folks?”

“A lot,” said she.

Brown was troubled. He heard the kitchen stove snore in its familiar way, the kettle bubble, the old wind assault the cottage he had builded for the baby; and he remembered recent years—and was troubled.

“Will ye love un more?” he asked, anxiously, turning his face from the child, “than ye loves me?” He hesitated. “Ye won’t, will ye?” he implored.

“’Twill be different,” said she.

“Will it?” he asked, rather vacantly.

“Ye see,” she explained, “he’ll be my father.”

“Then,” suggested “By-an’-by,” “ye’ll be goin’ away along o’ he?—when he comes?”

“Oh, my, no!”

“Ye’ll not? Ye’ll stay along o’ me?”

“Why, ye see,” she began, bewildered, “I’ll—why, o’ course, I’ll—oh,” she complained, “what ye ask me that for?”

“Jus’ couldn’t help it,” said “By-an’-by,” humbly.

The maid began to cry.

“Don’t!” pleaded “By-an’-by” Brown. “Jus’ can’t stand it. I’ll do anything if ye’ll on’y stop cryin’. Ye can have your father. Ye needn’t love me no more. Ye can go away along o’ he. An’ he’ll be comin’ soon, too. Ye’ll see if he don’t. Jus’ by-an’-by—by-an’-by!”

“’Tis never,” the maid sobbed.

“No, no! By-an’-by is soon. Why,” cried “By-an’-by” Brown, perceiving that this intelligence stopped the child’s tears, “by-an’-by is—wonderful soon.”

“To-morrow?”

“Well, no; but—”

“’Tis never!” she wailed.

“’Tis nex’ week!” cried “By-an’-by” Brown....

When the dawn of Monday morning confronted “By-an’-by” Brown he was appalled. Here was a desperately momentous situation: by-an’-by must be faced—at last. Where was Long Bill Tweak? Nobody knew. How could Long Bill Tweak be fetched from Nowhere? Brown scratched his head. But Long Bill Tweak must be fetched: for here was the maid, chirpin’ about the kitchen—turned out early, ecod! t’ clean house against her father’s coming. Cured? Ay; that she was—the mouse! “By-an’-by” Brown dared not contemplate her collapse at midnight of Saturday. But chance intervened: on Tuesday morning Long Bill Tweak made Blunder Cove on the way from Lancy Loop to St. John’s to join the sealing fleet in the spring of the year. Long Bill Tweak in the flesh! It was still blowing high: he had come out of the snow—a shadow in the white mist, rounding the Tickle rocks, observed from all the windows of Blunder Cove, but changing to Long Bill Tweak himself, ill-kempt, surly, gruff-voiced, vicious-eyed, at the kitchen door of “By-an’-by” Brown’s cottage.

Long Bill Tweak begged the maid, with a bristle-whiskered twitch—a scowl, mistakenly delivered as a smile—for leave to lie the night in that place.

The maid was afraid with a fear she had not known before. “We’re ’lowing for company,” she objected.

“Come in!” “By-an’-by” called from the kitchen.

The maid fled in a fright to the inner room, and closed the door upon herself; but Long Bill Tweak swaggered in.

“Tweak!” gasped “By-an’-by” Brown.

“Brown!” growled Long Bill Tweak.

There was the silence of uttermost amazement; but presently, with a jerk, Tweak indicated the door through which “By-an’-by’s” baby had fled.

“It?” he whispered.

Brown nodded.

“’Low I’ll be goin’ on,” said Long Bill Tweak, making for the windy day.

“Ye’ll go,” answered “By-an’-by” Brown, quietly, interposing his great body, “when ye’re let: not afore.”

Long Bill Tweak contented himself with the hospitality of “By-an’-by” Brown....

That night, when Brown had talked with the maid’s father for a long, long time by the kitchen stove, the maid being then turned in, he softly opened the bedroom door and entered, closing it absent-mindedly behind him, dwelling the while, in deep distress, upon the agreement he had wrested by threat and purchase from Long Bill Tweak. The maid was still awake because of terror; she was glad, indeed, to have caught sight of “By-an’-by” Brown’s broad, kindly young countenance in the beam of light from the kitchen, though downcast, and she snuggled deeper into the blankets, not afraid any more. “By-an’-by” touched a match to the candle-wick with a great hand that trembled. He lingered over the simple act—loath to come nearer to the evil necessity of the time. For Long Bill Tweak was persuaded now to be fatherly to the child; and “By-an’-by” Brown must yield her, according to her wish. He sat for a time on the edge of the little bed, clinging to the maid’s hand; and he thought, in his gentle way, that it was a very small, very dear hand, and that he would wish to touch it often, when he could not.

Presently Brown sighed: then, taking heart, he joined issue with his trouble.

“I ’low,” he began, “that you wisht your father was here.”

The maid did.

“I ’low,” he pursued, “that you wisht he was here this very minute.”

That the maid did!

“I ’low,” said “By-an’-by,” softly, lifting the child’s hands to his lips, “that you wisht the man in the kitchen was him.”

“No,” the maid answered, sharply.

“Ye doesn’t?”

“Ye bet ye—no!” said she.

“Eh?” gasped the bewildered Brown.

The maid sat upright and stiff in bed. “Oh, my!” she demanded, in alarm; “he isn’t, is he?”

“No!” said “By-an’-by” Brown.

“Sure?”

“Isn’t I jus’ tol’ ye so?” he answered, beaming.

Long Bill Tweak followed the night into the shades of forgotten time....

Came Wednesday upon “By-an’-by” Brown in a way to make the heart jump. Midnight of Saturday was now fairly over the horizon of his adventurous sea. Wednesday! Came Thursday—prompt to the minute. Days of bewildered inaction! And now the cottage was ship-shape to the darkest corners of its closets. Ship-shape as a wise and knowing maid of seven, used to housewifely occupations, could make it: which was as ship-shape as ship-shape could be, though you may not believe it. There was no more for the maid to do but sit with folded hands and confidently expectant gaze to await the advent of her happiness. Thursday morning: and “By-an’-by” Brown had not mastered his bearings. Three days more: Thursday, Friday, Saturday. It occurred, then, to “By-an’-by” Brown—at precisely ten o’clock of Friday morning—that his hope lay in Jim Turley of Candlestick Cove, an obliging man. They jus’ had t’ be a father, didn’t they? But they wasn’t no father no more. Well, then, ecod! make one. Had t’ be a father, somehow, didn’t they? And—well—there was Jim Turley o’ Candlestick Cove. He’d answer. Why not Jim Turley o’ Candlestick Cove, an obligin’ man, known t’ be such from Mother Burke t’ the Cape Norman Light? He’d ’blige a shipmate in a mess like this, ecod! You see if he didn’t!

Brown made ready for Candlestick Cove.

“But,” the maid objected, “what is I t’ do if father comes afore night?”

“Ah!” drawled “By-an’-by,” blankly.

“Eh?” she repeated.

“Why, o’ course,” he answered, with a large and immediate access of interest, drawing the arm-chair near the stove, “you jus’ set un there t’ warm his feet.”

“An’ if he doesn’t know me?” she protested.

“Oh, sure,” “By-an’-by” affirmed, “the ol’ man’ll know you, never fear. You jus’ give un a cup o’ tea an’ say I’ll be back afore dark.”

“Well,” the maid agreed, dubiously.

“I’ll be off,” said Brown, in a flush of embarrassment, “when I fetches the wood t’ keep your father cosey. He’ll be thirsty an’ cold when he comes. Ye’ll take good care of un, won’t ye?”

“Ye bet ye!”

“Mind ye get them there ol’ feet warm. An’ jus’ you fair pour the tea into un. He’s used t’ his share o’ tea, ye bet! I knows un.”

And so “By-an’-by” Brown, travelling over the hills, came hopefully to Jim Turley of Candlestick Cove, an obliging man, whilst the maid kept watch at the window of the Blunder Cove cottage. And Jim Turley was a most obligin’ man. ’Blige? Why, sure! I’ll ’blige ye! There was no service difficult or obnoxious to the selfish sons of men that Jim Turley would not perform for other folk—if only he might ’blige. Ye jus’ go ast Jim Turley; he’ll ’blige ye. And Jim Turley would with delight: for Jim had a passion for ’bligin’—assiduously seeking opportunities, even to the point of intrusion. Beaming Jim Turley o’ Candlestick Cove: poor, shiftless, optimistic, serene, well-beloved Jim Turley, forever cheerfully sprawling in the meshes of his own difficulties! Lean Jim Turley—forgetful of his interests in a fairly divine satisfaction with compassing the joy and welfare of his fellows! I shall never forget him: his round, flaring smile, rippling under his bushy whiskers, a perpetual delight, come any fortune; his mild, unself-conscious, sympathetic blue eyes, looking out upon the world in amazement, perhaps, but yet in kind and eager inquiry concerning the affairs of other folk; his blithe “Yo-ho!” at labor, and “Easy does it!” Jim Turley o’ Candlestick Cove—an’ obligin’ man!

“In trouble?” he asked of “By-an’-by” Brown, instantly concerned.

“Not ’xactly trouble,” answered “By-an’-by.”

“Sort o’ bothered?”

“Well, no,” drawled “By-an’-by” Brown; “but I got t’ have a father by Satu’day night.”

“For yerself?” Jim mildly inquired.

“For the maid,” said “By-an’-by” Brown; “an’ I was ’lowin’,” he added, frankly, “that you might ’blige her.”

“Well, now,” Jim Turley exclaimed, “I’d like t’ wonderful well! But, ye see,” he objected, faintly, “bein’ a ol’ bachelor I isn’t s’posed t’—”

“Anyhow,” “By-an’-by” Brown broke in, “I jus’ got t’ have a father by Satu’day night.”

“An’ I’m a religious man, an’—”

“No objection t’ religion,” Brown protested. “I’m strong on religion m’self. Jus’ as soon have a religious father as not. Sooner. Now,” he pleaded, “they isn’t nobody else in the world t’ ’blige me.”

“No,” Jim Turley agreed, in distress; “no—I ’low not.”

“An’ I jus’ got,” declared Brown, “t’ have a father by Satu’day night.”

“Course you is!” cried Jim Turley, instantly siding with the woebegone. “Jus’ got t’!”

“Well?”

“Oh, well, pshaw!” said Jim Turley, “I’ll ’blige ye!”

The which he did, but with misgiving: arriving at Blunder Cove after dark of Saturday, unobserved by the maid, whose white little nose was stuck to the frosty window-pane, whose eyes searched the gloom gathered over the Tickle rocks, whose ears were engaged with the tick-tock of the impassive clock. No; he was not observed, however keen the lookout: for he came sneaking in by Tumble Gully, ’cordin’ t’ sailin’ orders, to join “By-an’-by” Brown in the lee of the meeting-house under Anxiety Hill, where the conspiracy was to be perfected, in the light of recent developments, and whence the sally was to be made. He was in a shiver of nervousness; so, too, “By-an’-by” Brown. It was the moment of inaction when conspirators must forever be the prey of doubt and dread. They were determined, grim; they were most grave—but they were still afraid. And Jim Turley’s conscience would not leave him be. A religious man, Jim Turley! On the way from Candlestick Cove he had whipped the perverse thing into subjection, like a sinner; but here, in the lee of the meeting-house by Anxiety Hill, with a winter’s night fallen like a cold cloud from perdition, conscience was risen again to prod him.

An obligin’ man, Jim Turley: but still a religious man—knowing his master.

“I got qualms,” said he.

“Stummick?” Brown demanded, in alarm.

“This here thing,” Jim Turley protested, “isn’t a religious thing to do.”

“Maybe not,” replied “By-an’-by” Brown, doggedly; “but I promised the maid a father by Satu’day night, an’ I got t’ have un.”

“’Twould ease my mind a lot,” Jim Turley pleaded, “t’ ask the parson. Come, now!”

“By-an’-by,” said “By-an’-by” Brown.

“No,” Jim Turley insisted; “now.”

The parson laughed; then laughed again, with his head thrown back and his mouth fallen open very wide. Presently, though, he turned grave, and eyed “By-an’-by” Brown in a questioning, anxious way, as though seeking to discover in how far the big man’s happiness might be chanced: whereupon he laughed once more, quite reassured. He was a pompous bit of a parson, this, used to commanding the conduct of Blunder Cove; to controlling its affairs; to shaping the destinies of its folk with a free, bold hand: being in this both wise and most generously concerned, so that the folk profited more than they knew. And now, with “By-an’-by” Brown and the maid on his hands, to say nothing of poor Jim Turley, he did not hesitate; there was nothing for it, thinks he, but to get “By-an’-by” Brown out of the mess, whatever came of it, and to arrange a future from which all by-an’-bying must be eliminated. A new start, thinks he; and the by-an’-by habit would work no further injury. So he sat “By-an’-by” Brown and Jim Turley by the kitchen stove, without a word of explanation, and, still condescending no hint of his purpose, but bidding them both sit tight to their chairs, went out upon his business, which, as may easily be surmised, was with the maid.

“Bein’ a religious man,” said Jim Turley, solemnly, “he’ll mend it.”

When the parson came back there was nothing within her comprehension, which was quite sufficient to her need. “By-an’-by” Brown was sent home, with a kindly God-bless-ye! and an injunction of the most severe description to have done with by-an’-bying. He stumbled into his own kitchen in a shamefaced way, prepared, like a mischievous lad, to be scolded until his big ears burned and his scalp tingled; and he was a long, long time about hanging up his cap and coat and taking off his shoes, never once glancing toward the maid, who sat silent beyond the kitchen stove. And then, when by no further subterfuge could he prolong his immunity, he turned boldly in her direction, patiently and humbly to accept the inevitable correction, a promise to do better already fashioned upon his tongue. And there she sat, beyond the glowing stove, grinning in a way to show her white little teeth. Tears? Maybe: but only traces—where-left, indeed, for the maid to learn, or, at least, by her eyes shone all the brighter. And “By-an’-by” Brown, reproaching himself bitterly, sat down, with never a word, and began to trace strange pictures on the floor with the big toe of his gray-socked foot, while the kettle and the clock and the fire sang the old chorus of comfort and cheer.

The big man’s big toe got all at once furiously interested in its artistic occupation.

“Ah-ha!” says “By-an’-by’s” baby, “I found you out!”

“Uh-huh!” she repeated, threateningly, “I found you out.”

“Did ye?” “By-an’-by” softly asked.

The maid came on tiptoe from behind the stove, and made an arrangement of “By-an’-by” Brown’s long legs convenient for straddling; and having then settled herself on his knees, she tipped up his face and fetched her own so close that he could not dodge her eyes, but must look in, whatever came of it; and then—to the reviving delight of “By-an’-by” Brown—she tapped his nose with a long little forefinger, emphasizing every word with a stouter tap, saying:

“Yes—I—did!”

“Uh-huh!” he chuckled.

“An’,” said she, “I don’t want no father.”

“Ye don’t?” he cried, incredulous.

“Because,” she declared, “I’m ’lowin’ t’ take care o’ you—an’ marry you.”

“Ye is?” he gasped.

“Ye bet ye, b’y,” said “By-an’-by’s” baby—“by-an’-by!”

Then they hugged each other hard.

VIII—THEY WHO LOSE AT LOVE

And old Khalil Khayyat, simulating courage, went out, that the reconciliation of Yusef Khouri with the amazing marriage might surely be accomplished. And returning in dread and bewildered haste, he came again to the pastry-shop of Nageeb Fiani, where young Salim Awad, the light of his eyes, still lay limp over the round table in the little back room, grieving that Haleema, Khouri’s daughter, of the tresses of night, the star-eyed, his well-beloved, had of a sudden wed Jimmie Brady, the jolly truckman. The smoke hung dead and foul in the room; the coffee was turned cold in the cups, stagnant and greasy; the coal on the narghile was grown gray as death: the magic of great despair had in a twinkling worked the change of cheer to age and shabbiness and frigid gloom. But the laughter and soft voices in the outer room were all unchanged, still light, lifted indifferently above the rattle of dice and the aimless strumming of a canoun; and beyond was the familiar evening hum and clatter of New York’s Washington Street, children’s cries and the patter of feet, drifting in at the open door; and from far off, as before, came the low, receding roar of the Elevated train rounding the curve to South Ferry.

Khayyat smiled in compassion: being old, used to the healing of years, he smiled; and he laid a timid hand on the head of young Salim Awad.

“Salim, poet, the child of a poet,” he whispered, “grieve no more!”

“My heart is a gray coal, O Khalil!” sighed Salim Awad, who had lost at love. “For a moment it glowed in the breath of love. It is turned cold and gray; it lies forsaken in a vast night.”

“For a moment,” mused Khalil Khayyat, sighing, but yet smiling, “it glowed in the breath of love. Ah, Salim,” said he, “there is yet the memory of that ecstasy!”

“My heart is a brown leaf: it flutters down the wind of despair; it is caught in the tempest of great woe.”

“It has known the sunlight and the tender breeze.”

Salim looked up; his face was wet and white; his black hair, fallen in disarray over his forehead, was damp with the sweat of grief; his eyes, soulful, glowing in deep shadows, he turned to some place high and distant. “My heart,” he cried, passionately, clasping his hands, “is a thing that for a moment lived, but is forever dead! It is in a grave of night and heaviness, O Khalil, my friend!”

“It is like a seed sown,” said Khalil Khayyat.

“To fail of harvest!”

“Nay; to bloom in compassionate deeds. The flower of sorrow is the joy of the world. In the broken heart is the hope of the hopeless; in the agony of poets is their sure help. Hear me, O Salim Awad!” the old man continued, rising, lifting his lean brown hand, his voice clear, vibrant, possessing the quality of prophecy. “The broken heart is a seed sown by the hand of the Beneficent and Wise. Into the soil of life He casts it that there may be a garden in the world. With a free, glad hand He sows, that the perfume and color of high compassion may glorify the harvest of ambitious strife; and progress is the fruit of strife and love the flower of compassion. Yea, O Salim, poet, the child of a poet, taught of a poet, which am I, the broken heart is a seed sown gladly, to flower in this beauty. Blessed,” Khalil Khayyat concluded, smiling, “oh, blessed be the Breaker of Hearts!”

“Blessed,” asked Salim Awad, wondering, “be the Breaker of Hearts?”

“Yea, O Salim,” answered Khalil Khayyat, speaking out of age and ancient pain; “even blessed be the Breaker of Hearts!”

Salim Awad turned again to the place that was high and distant—beyond the gaudy, dirty ceiling of the little back room—where, it may be, the form of Haleema, the star-eyed, of the slender, yielding shape of the tamarisk, floated in a radiant cloud, compassionate and glorious.

“What is my love?” he whispered. “Is it a consuming fire? Nay,” he answered, his voice rising, warm, tremulous; “rather is it a little blaze, kindled brightly in the night, that it may comfort my beloved. What is my love, O Haleema, daughter of Khouri, the star-eyed? Is it an arrow, shot from my bow, that it may tear the heart of my beloved? Nay; rather is it a shield against the arrows of sorrow—my shield, the strength of my right arm: a refuge from the cruel shafts of life. What are my arms? Are they bars of iron to imprison my beloved? Nay,” cried Salim Awad, striking his breast; “they are but a resting-place. A resting-place,” he repeated, throwing wide his arms, “to which she will not come! Oh, Haleema!” he moaned, flinging himself upon the little round table, “Haleema! Jewel of all riches! Star of the night! Flower of the world! Haleema ... Haleema....”

“Poet!” Khalil Khayyat gasped, clutching the little round table, his eyes flashing. “The child of a poet, taught of a poet, which am I!”

They were singing in the street—a riot of Irish lads, tenement-born; tramping noisily past the door of Nageeb Fiani’s pastry-shop to Battery Park. And Khalil Khayyat sat musing deeply, his ears closed to the alien song, while distance mellowed the voices, changed them to a vagrant harmony, made them one with the mutter of Washington Street; for there had come to him a great thought—a vision, high, glowing, such as only poets may know—concerning love and the infinite pain; and he sought to fashion the thought: which must be done with tender care in the classic language, lest it suffer in beauty or effect being uttered in haste or in the common speech of the people. Thus he sat: low in his chair, his head hanging loose, his eyes jumping, his brown, wrinkled face fearfully working, until every hair of his unshaven beard stood restlessly on end. And Salim Awad, looking up, perceived these throes: and thereby knew that some prophetic word was immediately to be spoken.

“They who lose at love,” Khayyat muttered, “must.... They who lose at love....”

“Khalil!”

The Language Beautiful was for once perverse. The words would not come to Khalil Khayyat. He gasped, tapped the table with impatient fingers—and bent again to the task.

“They who lose at love....”

“Khalil!” Salim Awad’s voice was plaintive. “What must they do, O Khalil,” he implored, “who lose at love? Tell me, Khalil! What must they do?”

“They who lose at love.... They who lose at love must.... They who lose at love must ... seek....”

“Speak, O Khalil, concerning those wretched ones! And they must seek?”

Khayyat laughed softly. He sat back in the chair—proudly squared his shoulders. “And now I know!” he cried, in triumph. He cleared his throat. “They who lose at love,” he declaimed, “must seek....” He paused abruptly. There had been a warning in the young lover’s eyes: after all, in exceptional cases, poetry might not wisely be practised.

“Come, Khalil!” Salim Awad purred. “They who lose at love? What is left for them to do?”

“Nay,” answered Khalil Khayyat, looking away, much embarrassed, “I will not tell you.”

Salim caught the old man’s wrist. “What is the quest?” he cried, hoarsely, bending close.

“I may not tell.”

Salim’s fingers tightened; his teeth came together with a snap; his face flushed—a quick flood of red, hot blood.

“What is the quest?” he demanded.

“I dare not tell.”

“The quest?”

“I will not tell!”

Nor would Khalil Khayyat tell Salim Awad what must be sought by such as lose at love; but he called to Nageeb Fiani, the greatest player in all the world, to bring the violin, that Salim might hear the music of love and be comforted. And in the little back room of the pastry-shop near the Battery, while the trucks rattled over the cobblestones and the songs of the Irish troubled the soft spring night, Nageeb Fiani played the Song of Love to Lali, which the blind prince had made, long, long ago, before he died of love; and in the sigh and wail and passionate complaint of that dead woe the despair of Salim Awad found voice and spent itself; and he looked up, and gazing deep into the dull old eyes of Khalil Khayyat, new light in his own, he smiled.

“Yet, O Khalil,” he whispered, “will I go upon that quest!”

Now, Salim Awad went north to the bitter coasts—to the shore of rock and gray sea—there to carry a pack from harbor to harbor of a barren land, ever seeking in trade to ease the sorrows of love. Neither sea nor land—neither naked headland nor the unfeeling white expanse—neither sunlit wind nor the sleety gale in the night—helped him to forgetfulness. But, as all the miserable know, the love of children is a vast delight: and the children of that place are blue-eyed and hungry; and it is permitted the stranger to love them.... On he went, from Lobster Tickle to Snook’s Arm, from Dead Man’s Cove to Righteous Harbor, trading laces and trinkets for salt fish; and on he went, sanguine, light of heart, blindly seeking that which the losers at love must seek; for Khalil Khayyat had told him that the mysterious Thing was to be found in that place.

With a jolly wind abeam—a snoring breeze from the southwest—the tight little Bully Boy, fore-and-after, thirty tons, Skipper Josiah Top, was footing it through the moonlight from Tutt’s Tickle to the Labrador: bound down north for the first fishing of that year. She was tearing through the sea—eagerly nosing the slow, black waves; and they heartily slapped her bows, broke, ran hissing down the rail, lay boiling in the broad, white wake, stretching far into the luminous mist astern. Salim Awad, the peddler, picked up at Bread-and-Water Harbor, leaned upon the rail—staring into the mist: wherein, for him, were melancholy visions of the star-eyed maid of Washington Street.... At midnight the wind veered to the east—a swift, ominous change—and rose to the pitch of half a gale, blowing cold and capriciously. It brought fog from the distant open; the night turned clammy and thick; the Bully Boy found herself in a mess of dirty weather. Near dawn, being then close inshore, off the Seven Dogs, which growled to leeward, she ran into the ice—the first of the spring floes: a field of pans, slowly drifting up the land. And when the air was gray she struck on the Devil’s Finger, ripped her keel out, and filled like a sieve; and she sank in sixty seconds, as men say—every strand and splinter of her.

But first she spilled her crew upon the ice.

The men had leaped to port and starboard, fore and aft, in unthinking terror, each desperately concerned with his own life; they were now distributed upon the four pans which had been within leaping distance when the Bully Boy settled: white rafts, floating on a black, slow-heaving sea; lying in a circle of murky fog; creeping shoreward with the wind. If the wind held—and it was a true, freshening wind,—they would be blown upon the coast rocks, within a measurable time, and might walk ashore; if it veered, the ice would drift to sea, where, ultimately, in the uttermost agony of cold and hunger, every man would yield his life. The plight was manifest, familiar to them, every one; but they were wise in weather lore: they had faith in the consistency of the wind that blew; and, in the reaction from bestial terror, they bandied primitive jokes from pan to pan—save the skipper, who had lost all that he had, and was helplessly downcast: caring not a whit whether he lived or died; for he had loved his schooner, the work of his hands, his heart’s child, better than his life.

It chanced that Salim Awad, who loved the star-eyed daughter of Khouri, and in this land sought to ease the sorrow of his passion—it chanced that this Salim was alone with Tommy Hand, the cook’s young son—a tender lad, now upon his first voyage to the Labrador. And the boy began to whimper.

“Dad,” he called to his father, disconsolate, “I wisht—I wisht—I was along o’ you—on your pan.”

The cook came to the edge of the ice. “Does you, lad?” he asked, softly. “Does you wisht you was along o’ me, Tommy? Ah, but,” he said, scratching his beard, bewildered, “you isn’t.”

The space of black water between was short, but infinitely capacious; it was sullen and cold—intent upon its own wretchedness: indifferent to the human pain on either side. The child stared at the water, nostrils lifting, hands clinched, body quivering: thus as if at bay in the presence of an implacable terror. He turned to the open sea, vast, gray, heartless: a bitter waste—might and immensity appalling. Wistfully then to the land, upon which the scattered pack was advancing, moving in disorder, gathering as it went: bold, black coast, naked, uninhabited—but yet sure refuge: being greater than the sea, which it held confined; solid ground, unmoved by the wind, which it flung contemptuously to the sky. And from the land to his father’s large, kind face.

“No, b’y,” the cook repeated, “you isn’t. You sees, Tommy lad,” he added, brightening, as with a new idea, “you isn’t along o’ me.”

Tommy rubbed his eyes, which were now wet. “I wisht,” he sobbed, his under lip writhing, “I was—along o’ you!”

“I isn’t able t’ swim t’ you, Tommy,” said the cook; “an’, ah, Tommy!” he went on, reproachfully, wagging his head, “you isn’t able t’ swim t’ me. I tol’ you, Tommy—when I went down the Labrador las’ year—I tol’ you t’ l’arn t’ swim. I tol’ you, Tommy—don’t you mind the time?—when you was goin’ over the side o’ th’ ol’ Gabriel’s Trumpet, an’ I had my head out o’ the galley, an’ ’twas a fair wind from the sou’east, an’ they was weighin’ anchor up for’ard—don’t you mind the day, lad?—I tol’ you, Tommy, you must l’arn t’ swim afore another season. Now, see what’s come t’ you!” still reproachfully, but with deepening tenderness. “An’ all along o’ not mindin’ your dad! ‘Now,’ says you, ‘I wisht I’d been a good lad an’ minded my dad.’ Ah, Tommy—shame! I’m thinkin’ you’ll mind your dad after this.”

Tommy began to bawl.

“Never you care, Tommy,” said the cook. “The wind’s blowin’ we ashore. You an’ me’ll be saved.”

“I wants t’ be along o’ you!” the boy sobbed.

“Ah, Tommy! You isn’t alone. You got the Jew.”

“But I wants you!”

“You’ll take care o’ Tommy, won’t you, Joe?”

Salim Awad smiled. He softly patted Tommy Hand’s broad young shoulder. “I weel have,” said he, slowly, desperately struggling with the language, “look out for heem. I am not can,” he added, with a little laugh, “do ver’ well.”

“Oh,” said the cook, patronizingly, “you’re able for it, Joe.”

“I am can try eet,” Salim answered, courteously bowing, much delighted. “Much ’bliged.”

Meantime Tommy had, of quick impulse, stripped off his jacket and boots. He made a ball of the jacket and tossed it to his father.

“What you about, Tommy?” the cook demanded. “Is you goin’ t’ swim?”

Tommy answered with the boots; whereupon he ran up and down the edge of the pan, and, at last, slipped like a reluctant dog into the water, where he made a frothy, ineffectual commotion; after which he sank. When he came to the surface Salim Awad hauled him inboard.

“You isn’t goin’ t’ try again, is you, Tommy?” the cook asked.

“No, sir.”

Salim Awad began to breathe again; his eyes, too, returned to their normal size, their usual place.

“No,” the cook observed. “’Tis wise not to. You isn’t able for it, lad. Now, you sees what comes o’ not mindin’ your dad.”

The jacket and boots were tossed back. Tommy resumed the jacket.

“Tommy,” said the cook, severely, “isn’t you got no more sense ’n that?”

“Please, sir,” Tommy whispered, “I forgot.”

“Oh, did you! Did you forget? I’m thinkin’, Tommy, I hasn’t been bringin’ of you up very well.”

Tommy stripped himself to his rosy skin. He wrung the water out of his soggy garments and with difficulty got into them again.

“You better be jumpin’ about a bit by times,” the cook advised, “or you’ll be cotchin’ cold. An’ your mamma wouldn’t like that,” he concluded, “if she ever come t’ hear on it.”

“Ay, sir; please, sir,” said the boy.

They waited in dull patience for the wind to blow the floe against the coast.

It began to snow—a thick fall, by-and-by: the flakes fine and dry as dust. A woolly curtain shut coast and far-off sea from view. The wind, rising still, was charged with stinging frost. It veered; but it blew sufficiently true to the favorable direction: the ice still made ponderously for the shore, reeling in the swell.... The great pan bearing Salim Awad and Tommy Hand lagged; it was soon left behind: to leeward the figures of the skipper, the cook, the first hand, and the crew turned to shadows—dissolved in the cloud of snow. The cook’s young son and the love-lorn peddler from Washington Street alone peopled a world of ice and water, all black and white: heaving, confined. They huddled, cowering from the wind, waiting—helpless, patient: themselves detached from the world of ice and water, which clamored round about, unrecognized. The spirit of each returned: the one to the Cedars of Lebanon, the other to Lobster Cove; and in each place there was a mother. In plights like this the hearts of men and children turn to distant mothers; for in all the world there is no rest serene—no rest remembered—like the first rest the spirits of men know.

When dusk began to dye the circumambient cloud, the pan of ice was close inshore; the shape of the cliffs—a looming shadow—was vague in the snow beyond. There was no longer any roar of surf; the first of the floe, now against the coast, had smothered the breakers. A voice, coming faintly into the wind, apprised Tommy Hand that his father was ashore.... But the pan still moved sluggishly.

Tommy Hand shivered.

“Ah, Tom-ee!” Salim Awad said, anxiously. “Run! Jump! You weel have—what say?—cotch seek. Ay—cotch thee seek. Eh? R-r-run, Tom-ee!”

“Ay, ay,” Tommy Hand answered. “I’ll be jumpin’ about a bit, I’m thinkin’, t’ keep warm—as me father bid me do.”

“Queek!” cried Salim, laughing.

“Ay,” Tommy muttered; “as me father bid me do.”

“Jump, Tom-ee!” Salim clapped his hands. “Hi, hi! Dance, Tom-ee!”

In the beginning Tommy was deliberate and ponderous; but as his limbs were suppled—and when his blood ran warm again—the dance quickened; for Salim Awad slapped strangely inspiring encouragement, and with droning “la, la!” and sharp “hi, hi!” excited the boy to mad leaps—and madder still. “La, la!” and “Hi, hi!” There was a mystery in it. Tommy leaped high and fast. “La, la!” and “Hi, hi!” In response to the strange Eastern song the fisherboy’s grotesque dance went on.... Came then the appalling catastrophe: the pan of rotten, brittle salt-water ice cracked under the lad; and it fell in two parts, which, in the heave of the sea, at once drifted wide of each other. The one part was heavy, commodious; the other a mere unstable fragment of what the whole had been: and it was upon the fragment that Salim Awad and Tommy Hand were left. Instinctively they sprawled on the ice, which was now overweighted—unbalanced. Their faces were close; and as they lay rigid—while the ice wavered and the water covered it—they looked into each other’s eyes.... There was, not room for both.

“Tom-ee,” Salim Awad gasped; his breath indrawn, quivering, “I am—mus’—go!”

The boy stretched out his hand—an instinctive movement, the impulse of a brave and generous heart—to stop the sacrifice.

“Hush!” Salim Awad whispered, hurriedly, lifting a finger to command peace. “I am—for one queek time—have theenk. Hush, Tom-ee!”

Tommy Hand was silent.

And Salim Awad heard again the clatter and evening mutter of Washington Street, children’s cries and the patter of feet, drifting in from the soft spring night—heard again the rattle of dice in the outer room, and the aimless strumming of the canoun—heard again the voice of Khalil Khayyat, lifted concerning such as lose at love. And Salim Awad, staring into a place that was high and distant, beyond the gaudy, dirty ceiling of the little back room of Nageeb Fiani’s pastry-shop near the Battery, saw again the form of Haleema, Khouri’s star-eyed daughter, floating in a cloud, compassionate and glorious. “‘The sun as it sets,’” he thought, in the high words of Antar, spoken of Abla, his beloved, the daughter of Malik, when his heart was sore, “‘turns toward her and says, “Darkness obscures the land, do thou arise in my absence.” The brilliant moon calls out to her: “Come forth, for thy face is like me, when I am in all my glory.” The tamarisk-trees complain of her in the morn and in the eve, and say: “Away, thou waning beauty, thou form of the laurel!” She turns away abashed, and throws aside her veil, and the roses are scattered from her soft, fresh cheeks. Graceful is every limb; slender her waist; love-beaming are her glances; waving is her form. The lustre of day sparkles from her forehead, and by the dark shades of her curling ringlets night itself is driven away!’”.... They who lose at love? Upon what quest must the wretched ones go? And Khalil Khayyat had said that the Thing was to be found in this place.... Salim Awad’s lips trembled: because of the loneliness of this death—and because of the desert, gloomy and infinite, lying beyond.

“Tom-ee,” Salim Awad repeated, smiling now, “I am—mus’—go. Goo’-bye, Tom-ee!”

“No, no!”

In this hoarse, gasping protest Salim Awad perceived rare sweetness. He smiled again—delight, approval. “Ver’ much ’bliged,” he said, politely. Then he rolled off into the water....