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"Tumm, Tumm, Tumm. . . . Tumm, Tumm, Tumm. . . . Tumm’·

"Don't,' says I, for it give me the fidgets. 'Don't say it so often.' "Why not?' says he. "I don't like it,' says I. "Tumm,' says he, with a little cackle, "Tumm, Tumm, Tumm’

"Don't you do that no more,' says I. 'I won't have it. When you says it that way, I 'low I don't know whether my name is Tumm or Tump. "Tis a very queer name. I wisht,' says I, 'that I'd been called Smith.'

""T would n't make no difference,' says he. All names is queer if you stops t' think. Every word you ever spoke is queer. Everything is queer. It's all queer

once you stops t' think about it.' "Then I don't think I'll stop,' says I, 'for I don't like things t' be queer.' "Then Botch had a little spell o' thinkin"."

Tumm leaned over the forecastle table.

"Now," said he, forefinger lifted, “accordin' t' my lights, it ain't nice t' see any man thinkin': for a real man ain't got no call t' think, an' can't afford the time on the coast o' Newf'un'land, where they's too much fog an' wind an' rock t' 'low it. For me, I'd rather see a man in a 'leptic fit: for fits is more or less natural an' can't be helped. But Botch! When Botch thunk — when he got hard at it -'t would give you the shivers. He sort o' drawed away - got into nothin'. They was n't no sea nor shore for Botch no more; they was n't no earth, no heavens. He got rid o' all that, as though it hindered the work he was at, an' did n't matter, anyhow. They was n't nothin' left o' things but Botch-an' the nothin' about un. Botch in nothin'. Accordin' t' my lights, 't is a sinful thing t' do; an' when I first seed Botch at it, I 'lowed he was lackin' in religious opinions. "T was just as if his soul had pulled down the blinds, an' locked the front door, an' gone out for a walk, without leavin' word when 't would be home. An', accordin' t' my lights, it ain't

right, nor wise, for a man's soul t' do no such thing. A man's soul ain't got no common sense; it ain't got no caution, no manners, no nothin' that it needs in a wicked world like this. When it gets loose, 't is liable t' wander far, an' get lost, an' miss its supper. Accordin' t' my lights, it ought t' be kep' in, an' fed an' washed regular, an' put t' bed at nine o'clock. But Botch! well, there lied his body in the wet, like an unloved child, while his soul went cavortin' over the Milky Way.

"He come to all of a sudden. 'Tumm' says he, 'you is.'

"Ay,' says I, "Tumm I is. "T is the name I was born with.'

"You don't find me,' says he. 'I says you is.'

""Is what?"

"Just -is!'

my

"With that, I took un. "T was all t' oncet. He was tellin' me that I was. Well, I is. Damme! 't was n't anything I did n't know if I'd stopped t' think. But they was n't nobody ever called notice to it afore, an' I'd been too busy about the fish t' mind it. So I was sort o'- s'prised. It don't matter, look you! t' be; but 't is mixin' t' the mind an' fearsome t' stop t' think about it. An' it come t' me all t' oncet; an' I was s'prised, an' I was scared.

"Now, Tumm,' says he, with his finger p'intin', 'where was you?'

"Fishin' off the Shark's Fin,' says I. 'We just come up loaded, an'.

"You don't find me,' says he. 'I says, where was you afore you was is?' "Is you gone mad?' says I. "Not at all, Tumm,' says he. 'Not at all! 'Tis a plain question. You is, is n't you? Well, then you must have been was. Now, then, Tumm, where was you?'

"Afore I was born?'

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The Jug Cove fishing-grounds lie off Break-heart Head. They are beset with peril and all the mysteries of the earth. They are fished from little punts, which the men of Jug Cove cleverly make with their own hands, every man his own punt, having been taught to this by their fathers, who learned of the fathers before them, out of the knowledge which ancient contention with the wiles of the wind and of the sea had disclosed. The timber is from the wilderness, taken at leisure; the iron and hemp are from the far-off southern world, which is to the men of the place like a grandmother's tale, loved and incredible. Off the Head the sea is spread with rock and shallow. It is a sea of wondrously changing colors, blue, red as blood, gray, black with the night. It is a sea of changing moods: of swift, unprovoked wrath; of unsought and surprising gentlenesses. It is not to be understood. There is no mastery of it to be won. It gives no accounting to men. has no feeling. The shore is bare and stolid. Black cliffs rise from the water; they are forever white at the base with the fret of the sea. Inland, the blue-black hills lift their heads; they are unknown to the folk hills of fear, remote and cruel. Seaward fogs and winds are bred; the misty distances are vast and mysterious, wherein are the great cliffs of the world's edge. Winds and fogs and ice are loose and passionate upon the waters. Overhead is the high, wide sky, its appalling immensity revealed from the rim to the rim. Clouds, white and black, crimson and gold, fluffy, torn to shreds, wing restlessly from nowhere to nowhere. It is a vast, silent, restless place. At night its infinite spaces are alight with the dread marvel of stars.

It

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"Eh?" Tumm resumed. "You knows what it is, lads. "T is bad enough t' think in company, when a man can peep into a human eye an' steady his old hulk; but t' think alone -an' at the fishin'! I 'low Botch ought to have knowed better; for they's too many men gone t' the madhouse t' Saint John's already from this here coast along o' thinkin'. But Botch thinked at will. "Tumm,' says he, 'I done a power o' thinkin' in my life -out there on the grounds, between Break-heart Head an' the Tombstone, that breakin' rock t' the east'ard. I've thunk o' wind an' sea, o' sky an' soil, o' tears an' laughter an' crooked backs, o' love an' death, rags an' robbery, of all the things of earth an' in the hearts o' men; an' I don't know nothin'! My God! after all, I don't know nothin'! The more I've thunk, the less I've knowed. 'T is all come down t' this, now, Tumm: that I is. An' if I is, I was an' will be. But sometimes I misdoubt the was; an' if I loses my grip on the was, Tumm, my God! what'll become o' the will be? Can you tell me that, Tumm? Is I got t' come down t' the is? Can't I build nothin' on that? Can't I go no further than the is? An' will I lose even that? Is I got t' come down t' knowin' nothin' at all?'

"Look you! Botch,' says I, 'don't you know the price o' fish?'

"No,' says he. 'But it ain't nothin' t' know. It ain't worth knowin'. It it it don't matter!'

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"I'low,' says I, 'your wife don't think likewise. You got a wife, is n't you?' "Ay,' says he.

"An' a kid?'

"I don't know,' says he. "You what!' says I.

"I don't know,' says he. 'She was engaged at it when I come up on the Head. They was a lot o' women in the house, an' a wonderful lot o' fuss an' muss. You'd be s'prised, Tumm,' says he, 't' know how much fuss a thing like this can make. So,' says he, 'I 'lowed I'd come up on the Pillar o' Cloud an' think a spell in peace.'

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'An' what?' says I.

"Have a little spurt at thinkin'.' "O' she?'

"Oh, no, Tumm,' says he; 'that ain't nothin' t' think about. But,' says he, ‘I s'pose I might as well go down now, an' see what's happened. I hopes 't is a boy,' says he, 'for somehow girls don't seem t' have much show.'

"An' with that," drawled Tumm, "down the Pillar o' Cloud goes Abraham Botch."

He paused to laugh; and 't was a soft, sad little laugh-dwelling upon things long past.

'An' by and by," he continued, “I took the goat-path t' the waterside; an' I went aboard the Quick as Wink in a fog o' dreams an' questions. The crew was weighin' anchor, then; an''t was good for the soul t' feel the deck-planks underfoot, an' t' hear the clank o' solid iron, an' t' join the work-song o' men that had muscles an' bowels. 'Skipper Zeb,' says I, when we had the old craft coaxed out o' the tickle, 'leave me have a spell at the wheel. For the love o' man,' says I, 'let me get a grip of it! I wants t' get hold o' something with my hands

some

thing real an' solid; something I knows about; something that means something!' For all this talk o' the is an' was, an' all these thoughts o' the why, an' all the crybaby 'My Gods!' o' Abraham Botch, an' the mystery o' the wee new soul, had made me dizzy in the head an' a bit sick at the stomach. So I took the wheel, an' felt the leap an' quiver o' the ship, an' got my eye screwed on the old Giant's Thumb, loomin' out o' the east'ard fog, an' kep' her willful head up, an' wheedled her along in the white tumble, with the

spray o' the sea cool an' wet on my face; an' I was better t' oncet. The Boilin'-Pot Shallows was dead ahead; below the fog I could see the manes o' the big whitehorses flung t' the gale. An' I 'lowed that oncet I got the Quick as Wink in them waters, deep with fish as she was, I'd have enough of a real man's troubles t' sink the woes o' the soul out o' all remembrance.

"I won't care a squid,' thinks I, 'for the why nor the wherefore o' nothin'!' "N neither I did."

The skipper of the Good Samaritan yawned. "Is n't they nothin' about fish in this here yarn?" he asked.

"Nor tradin',” snapped Tumm.
"Nothin' about love?"

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Botch never knowed about love.” "If you 'll 'scuse me," said the skipper, "I'll turn in. I got enough."

But the clammy, red-eyed lad from the Cove o' First Cousins hitched closer to the table, and put his chin in his hands. He was now in a shower of yellow light from the forecastle lamp. His nostrils were working; his eyes were wide and restless and hot. He had bitten at a chapped underlip until the blood came.

"About that will be," he whispered timidly. "Did Botch never say,—where?" "You better turn in," Tumm answered.

"But I wants t' know!"

Tumm averted his face. "Ill," he commanded quietly, "you better turn in.” The boy was obedient.

"In March, 'long about two year after," Tumm resumed, "I shipped for the ice aboard the Neptune. We got a scattered swile [seal] off the Horse Islands; but ol' Cap'n Lane 'lowed the killin' was so mean that he'd move t' sea an' come up with the ice on the outside, for the wind had been in the nor'west for a likely spell. We cotched the body o' ice t' the nor'east o' the Funks; an' the swiles was sure there, hoods an' harps an' whitecoats an' all. They was three Saint John's steamers there, an' they'd been killin'

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for a day an' a half; so the ol' man turned our crew loose on the ice without waitin' t' wink, though 't was afternoon, with a wicked gray look t'the sky in the west, which was where the wind was jumpin' from. An' we had a red time, -ay, now, believe me: a soppy red time of it among the swiles that day! They was men from Green Bay, an' Bonavist', an' the Exploits, an' the South Coast, an' a swarm o' Irish from Saint John's; they was so many men on the pack, ecod! that you could n't call their names. An' we killed an' sculped till dusk. An' then the weather broke with snow; an' afore we knowed it we was lost from the ships in the cloud an' wind, three hundred men, ecod! smothered an' blinded by snow: howlin' for salvation like souls in a frozen hell. "Tumm,' thinks I, 'you better get aboard o' something the sea won't break over. This pack,' thinks I, 'will certain go abroad when the big wind gets at it.'

"So I got aboard a bit of a berg; an' when I found the lee side I sot down in the dark an' thunk hard about different things, sunshine an' supper an' the like o' that; for they was n't no use thinkin' about what was goin' for'ard on the pack near by. An' there, on the side o' the little berg, sits I till mornin'; an' in the mornin', out o' the blizzard t' win'ward, along comes Abraham Botch o' Jug Cove, marooned on a flat pan o' ice. "T was comin' down the wind, -clippin' it toward my overgrown lump of a craft like a racin' yacht. When I sighted Botch, roundin' a point o' the berg, I 'lowed I'd have no more 'n twenty minutes t' yarn with un afore he was out o' hail an' sight in the snow t' leeward. He was squatted on his haunches, with his chin on his knees, white with thin ice, an' fringed an' decked with icicles; an' it 'peared t' me, from the way he was took up with the nothin' about un, that he was still thinkin'. The pack was gone abroad, then, scattered t' the four winds: they was n't another pan t' be seed on the black water. An' the sea was runnin' high -a fussy wind-lop over a swell that broke

in big whitecaps, which went swishin' away with the wind. A scattered sea broke over Botch's pan; 't would fall aboard, an' break, an' curl past un, risin' to his waist. But the poor devil did n't seem t' take much notice. He'd shake the water off, an' cough it out of his throat; an' then he'd go on takin' observations in the nothin' dead ahead.

"Ahoy, Botch!' sings I.

"He knowed me t' oncet. "Tumm!' he sings out. 'Well, well! That you?'

"The same,' says I. 'You got a bad berth there, Botch. I wish you was aboard the berg with me.'

"Oh,' says he, 'the pan 'll do. I gets a bit choked with spray when I opens my mouth; but they is n't no good reason why I should n't keep it shut. A man ought t' breathe through his nose, anyhow. That's what it's for.'

""T was a bad day, a late dawn in a hellish temper. They was n't much of it t' see, - just a space o' troubled water, an' the big, unfeelin' cloud. An', God! how cold it was. The wind was thick with dry snow, an' it come whirlin' out o' the west as if it wanted t' do damage, an' meant t' have its way. "T would grab the crests o' the seas an' fling un off like handfuls o' white dust. An' in the midst o' this was poor Botch o' Jug Cove!

"This wind,' says I, 'will work up a wonderful big sea, Botch. You'll be swep' off afore nightfall.'

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"No,' says he; 'for by good luck, Tumm, I'm froze tight t' the pan.'

"But the seas 'll drown you.'

"I don't know,' says he. 'I keeps breakin' the ice 'round my neck,' says he, 'an' if I can on'y keep my neck clear an' limber I'll be able t' duck most o' the big seas.'

"It was n't nice t' see the gentle wretch squattin' there on his haunches. It made me feel bad. I wisht he was home t' Jug Cove thinkin' of his soul.

"Botch,' says I, 'I wisht you was somewheres else!'

"Now, don't you trouble about that, Tumm,' says he. 'Please don't! The ice

is all on the outside. I'm perfeckly comfortable inside.'

"He took it all so gracious that somehow or other I begun t' forget that he was froze t' the pan an' bound out t' sea. He was 'longside, now; an' I seed un smile. So I sort o' got his feelin'; an' I did n't fret for un no more.

"An', Tumm,' says he, 'I've had a wonderful grand night. I'll never forget it so long as I lives.'

"Awhat?' says I. 'Wasn't you cold?' “I—I—I don't know,' says he, puzzled. 'I was too busy t' notice much.'

"Is n't you hungry?'

"Why, Tumm,' says he, in s'prise, 'I believes I is, now that you mentions it. I believes I'd like a biscuit.'

"I wisht I had one t' shy,' says I. "Don't you be troubled,' says he. 'My arms is stuck. I could n't cotch it, anyhow.'

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"Anyhow,' says I, 'I wisht I had one.' "A grand night!' says he. 'For I got a idea, Tumm. They was n't nothin' t' disturb me all night long. I been all alone

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an' I been quiet. An' I got a idea. I've gone an' found out, Tumm,' says he, law o' life! Look you! Tumm,' says he, 'what you aboard that berg for? "Tis because you had sense enough t' get there. An' why is n't I aboard that berg? "Tis because I did n't have none o' the on'y kind o' sense that was needed in the mess last night. You'll be picked up by the fleet,' says he, 'when the weather clears; an' I'm bound out t' sea on a speck o' flat ice. This coast ain't kind,' says he. 'No coast is kind. Men lives because they're able for it; not because they're coaxed to. An' the on'y kind o' men this coast lets live an' breed is the kind she wants. The kind o' men this coast puts up with ain't weak, an' they ain't timid, an’ they don't think. Them kind dies, -just the way I 'low I got t' die. They don't live, Tumm, an' they don't breed.' "What about you?' says I. "About me?' says he.

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'Ay, that day on the Pillar o' Cloud.'

"Oh!' says he. 'You mean about she. Well, it did n't come t' nothin', Tumm. The women folk was n't able t' find me, an' they did n't know which I wanted sove, the mother or the child; so, somehow or other, both went an' died afore I got there. But that is n't got nothin' t' do with this.'

"He was drifted a few fathoms past. Just then a big sea fell atop of un. He ducked real skillful, an' come out of it smilin', if sputterin'.

"Now, Tumm,' says he, 'if we was t' the s'uthard, where they says 't is warm an' different, an' lives is n't lived the same, maybe you'd be on the pan o' ice, an' I'd be aboard the berg; maybe you'd be like t' starve, an' I'd get so much as forty cents a day the year round. They's a great waste in life,' says he, 'I don't know why; but there 't is. An' I 'low I'm gone t' waste on this here coast. I been born out o' place; that's all. But they's a place somewheres for such as me somewheres for the likes o' me. T' the s'uth'ard, now, maybe, they'd be a place; t' the s'uth'ard maybe the folk would want t' know about the things I thinks out-ay, maybe they'd even pay for the labor I'm put to! But here, you lives, an' I dies. Don't you see, Tumm? "T is the law! "T is why a Newf'un'lander ain't a nigger. More 'n that, 't is why a dog's a dog on land an' a swile in the water; 't is why a dog haves legs an' a swile haves flippers. Don't you see? "T is the law!'

"I don't quite find you,' says I.

"Poor Botch shook his head. "They is n't enough words in langwitch,' says he, 't' 'splain things. Men ought t' get t' work an' make more.'

"But tell me,' says
I.

"Then, by Botch's regular ill luck, under he went; an' it took un quite a spell t' cough his voice into workin' order.

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