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We were lying snug from the wind and sea in Right-an’-Tight Cove–the Straits shore of the Labrador–when Tumm, the clerk of the Quick as Wink, trading the northern outports for salt cod in fall weather, told the engaging tale of Small Sam Small, of Whooping Harbor. It was raining. This was a sweeping downpour, sleety and thick, driving, as they say in those parts, from a sky as black as a wolf’s throat. There was no star showing; there were cottage lights on the hills ashore–warm and human little glimmers in the dark–but otherwise a black confusion all round about. The wind, running down from the northwest, tumbled over the cliff, and swirled, bewildered and angry, in the lee of it. Riding under Lost Craft Head, in this black turmoil, the schooner shivered a bit; and she droned aloft, and she whined below, and she restlessly rose and fell in the soft swell that came spent and frothy from the wide open through Run Away Tickle. But for all we in the forecastle knew of the bitter night–of the roaring white seas and a wind thick and stinging with spume snatched from the long crests–it was blowing a moonlit breeze aboard. The forecastle lamp burned placidly; and the little stove was busy with its accustomed employment–laboring with much noisy fuss in the display of its genial accomplishments. Skipper and crew–and Tumm, the clerk, and I–lounged at ease in the glow and warmth. No gale from the nor’west, blow as it would in fall weather, could trouble the Quick as Wink, lying at anchor under Lost Craft Head in Right-an’-Tight Cove of the Labrador.

“When a man lays hold on a little strand o’ human wisdom,” said Tumm, breaking a heavy muse, “an’ hangs his whole weight to it,” he added, with care, “he’ve no cause t’ agitate hisself with surprise if the rope snaps.”

“What’s this preachin’?” the skipper demanded.

“That ain’t no preachin’,” said Tumm, resentfully “’tis a fact.”

“Well,” the skipper complained, “what you want t’ go an’ ask a hard question like that for?”

“Sittin’ here in the forecastle o’ the ol’ Quick as Wink, in this here black gale from the nor’west,” said Tumm, “along o’ four disgruntled dummies an’ a capital P passenger in the doldrums, I been thinkin’ o’ Small Sam Small o’ Whoopin’ Harbor. ‘This here world, accordin’ as she’s run,’ says Small Sam Small, ‘is no fit place for a decent man t’ dwell. The law o’ life, as I was teached it,’ says he, ‘is Have ; but as I sees the needs o’ men, Tumm, it ought t’ be Give. T’ have –t’ take an’ t’ keep –breaks a good man’s heart in the end. He lies awake in the night, Tumm–in the company of his own heart–an’ he isn’t able t’ forget jus’ how he got. I’m no great admirer o’ the world, an’ I isn’t very fond o’ life,’ says he; ‘but I knows the law o’ life, an’ lives the best I can accordin’ t’ the rules I’ve learned. I was cast out t’ make my way as a wee small lad; an’ I was teached the law o’ life by harsh masters–by nights’ labor, an’ kicks, an’ robbery, Tumm, by wind, an’ cold, an’ great big seas, by a empty belly, an’ the fear o’ death in my small heart. So I’m a mean man. I’m the meanest man in Newf’un’land. They says my twin sister died o’ starvation at the age o’ two months along o’ my greed. May be: I don’t know–but I hopes I never was born the mean man I is. Anyhow,’ says he, ‘Small Sam Small–that’s me–an’ I stands by! I’m a damned mean man, an’ I isn’t unaware; but they isn’t a man on the St. John’s waterside–an’ they isn’t a big-bug o’ Water Street–can say t’ me, “Do this, ye bay-noddie!” or, “Do that, ye bankrupt out-porter!” or, “Sign this, ye coast’s whelp!” Still an’ all, Tumm,’ says he, ‘I don’t like myself very much, an’ I isn’t very fond o’ the company o’ the soul my soul’s become.’