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“‘I’m used t’ the ice from my youth up,’ says he, ‘an’ I’ll manage the passage.’

“‘Man,’ says I, ‘the night’s near down!’

“‘Mr. Tumm, I’m a kindly skipper,’ says he, ‘but I haves my way. My coon-skin coat, sir!’

“I fetched it.

“‘Take the ship, Mr. Tumm,’ says he; ‘an’ stand aside, sir, an you please!’

“Touched with rum, half mad o’ balked greed, with a face like wrinkled foolscap, Small Sam Small went over the side, in his coonskin coat. The foggy night fell down. The lights o’ the Claymore showed dim in the drivin’ mist. The wind had its way. An’ it blowed the slob off t’ sea like feathers. What a wonder o’ power is the wind! An’ the sea begun t’ hiss an’ swell where the ice had been. From the fog come the clang o’ the Claymore’s telegraph, the chug-chug of her engines, an’ a long howl o’ delight as she gathered way. ‘Twas no time at all, it seemed t’ me, afore we lost her lights in the mist. An’ in that black night–with the wind t’ smother his cries–we couldn’t find Sammy Small.

* * * * *

“The wind fell away at dawn,” Tumm went on. “A gray day: the sea a cold gray–the sky a drear color. We found Skipper Sammy, close t’ noon, with fog closin’ down, an’ a drip o’ rain fallin’. He was squatted on a pan o’ ice–broodin’–wrapped up in his coonskin coat. ‘Tumm,’ says he, ‘carry my ol’ bones aboard.’ An’ he said never a word more until we had un stretched out in his bunk an’ the chill eased off. ‘Tumm,’ says he, ‘I got everything fixed in writin’, in St. John’s, for–my son. I’ve made you executor, Tumm, for I knows you haves a kindly feelin’ for the lad, an’ an inklin’, maybe, o’ the kind o’ man I wished I was. A fair lad: a fine, brave lad, with a free hand. I’m glad he knows how t’ spend. I made my fortune, Tumm, as I made it; an’ I’m glad–I’m proud–I’m mighty proud–that my son will spend it like a gentleman. I loves un. An’ you, Tumm, will teach un wisdom an’ kindness, accordin’ t’ your lights. That’s all, Tumm: I’ve no more t’ say.’ Pretty soon, though, he run on: ‘I been a mean man. But I’m not overly sorry now: for hunger an’ hardship will never teach my son evil things o’ the world God made. I ‘low, anyhow,’ says he, ‘that God is even with me. But I don’t know–I don’t know.’ You see,” Tumm reflected, “’tis wisdom t’ get an’ t’ have, no doubt; but ’tis not the whole o’ wisdom, an’ ’tis a mean poor strand o’ Truth t’ hang the weight of a life to. Maybe, then,” he continued, “Small Sam Small fell asleep. I don’t know. He was quite still. I waited with un till twilight. ‘Twas gray weather still–an’ comin’ on a black night. The ship pitched like a gull in the spent swell o’ the gale. Rain fell, I mind. Maybe, then, Skipper Sammy didn’t quite know what he was sayin’. Maybe not. I don’t know. ‘Tumm,’ says he, ‘is you marked his eyes? Blood back o’ them eyes, sir–blood an’ a sense o’ riches. His strut, Tumm!’ says he. ‘Is you marked the strut? A little game-cock, Tumm–a gentleman’s son, every pound an’ inch of un! A fine, fair lad. My lad, sir. An’ he’s a free an’ genial spender, God bless un!’

“Skipper Sammy,” Tumm concluded, “died that night.”

The gale was still blowing in Right-an’-Tight Cove of the Labrador, where the schooner Quick as Wink lay at anchor: a black gale of fall weather.

“Tumm,” the skipper of the Quick as Wink demanded, “what become o’ that lad?”

“Everybody knows,” Tumm answered.

“What!” the skipper ejaculated; “you’re never tellin’ me he’s the Honor—-“

“I is,” Tumm snapped, impatiently. “He’s the Honorable Samuel Small, o’ St. John’s. ‘If I’m goin’ t’ use my father’s fortune,’ says he, ‘I’ll wear his name.'”

“‘Twas harsh,” the skipper observed, “on the mother.”

“No-o-o,” Tumm drawled; “not harsh. She never bore no grudge against Small Sam Small–not after the baby was born. She was jus’ a common ordinary woman.”