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“Broodin’, sir.”

“Broodin’, Terry? What’s that?”

“Jus’ broodin’.”

“Not that damned picture, Terry?”

“Ay, sir.”

“How can that be, lad?” It was all incomprehensible to Skipper Tom. “‘Tis but an unreal thing.”

Terry looked up.

“‘Tis real !” he blazed.

“‘Tis but a thing o’ fancy.”

“Ay, fancy! A thing o’ fancy! ‘Tis fancy that makes it real.”

“An’ you–a coward?”

Terry sighed.

“Ay, sir,” said he, ashamed.

“Terry Lute,” said Skipper Tom, gravely, now perceiving, “is you been fosterin’ any fear o’ the sea?”

“Ay, sir.”

Skipper Tom’s eye flashed in horrified understanding. He rose in contempt and wrath.

” Practicin’ fear o’ the sea?” he demanded.

“Ay, sir.”

“T’ sketch a picture?”

Terry began to sob.

“There wasn’t no other way,” he wailed.

“God forgive you, wicked lad!”

“I’ll overcome, sir.”

“Ah, Terry, poor lad,” cried Skipper Tom, anguished, “you’ve no place no more in a decent world.”

“I’ll overcome.”

“‘Tis past the time.”

Terry Lute caught his father about the neck.

“I’ll overcome, father,” he sobbed. “I’ll overcome.”

And Tom Lute took the lad in his arms, as though he were just a little fellow.

* * * * *

And, well, in great faith and affection they made an end of it all that night–a chuckling end, accomplished in the kitchen stove, of everything that Terry Lute had done, saving only “The Fang,” which must be kept ever-present, said Skipper Tom, to warn the soul of Terry Lute from the reefs of evil practices. And after that, and through the years since then, Terry Lute labored to fashion a man of himself after the standards of his world. Trouble? Ay, trouble–trouble enough at first, day by day, in fear, to confront the fabulous perils of his imagination. Trouble enough thereafter encountering the sea’s real assault, to subdue the reasonable terrors of those parts. Trouble enough, too, by and by, to devise perils beyond the common, to find a madcap way, to disclose a chance worth daring for the sheer exercise of courage. But from all these perils, of the real and the fanciful, of the commonplace path and the way of reckless ingenuity, Terry Lute emerged at last with the reputation of having airily outdared every devil of the waters of Out-of-the-Way.

When James Cobden came wandering by, Terry Lute was a great, grave boy, upstanding, sure-eyed, unafraid, lean with the labor he had done upon his own soul.

* * * * *

When the Stand By, in from Twillingate Harbor, dropped anchor at Out-of-the-Way Tickle, James Cobden had for three days lived intimately with “The Fang.” He was hardly to be moved from its company. He had sought cause of offense; he had found no reasonable grounds. Wonder had grown within him. Perhaps from this young work he had visioned the highest fruition of the years. The first warm flush of approbation, at any rate, had changed to the beginnings of reverence. That Terry Lute was a master–a master of magnitude, already, and of a promise so large that in generations the world had not known the like of it–James Cobden was gravely persuaded. And this meant much to James Cobden, clear, aspiring soul, a man in pure love with his art. And there was more: grown old now, a little, he dreamed new dreams of fatherly affection, indulged in a studio which had grown lonely of late; and he promised himself, beyond this, the fine delight of cherishing a young genius, himself the prophet of that power, with whose great fame his own name might bear company into the future. And Terry Lute, met in the flesh, turned out to be a man–even such a man, in his sure, wistful strength, as Cobden could respect.

There came presently the close of a day on the cliffs of Out-of-the-Way, a blue wind blowing over the sunlit moss, when Cobden, in fear of the issue, which must be challenged at last, turned from his work to the slope behind, where Terry Lute sat watching.

“Come!” said Cobden, smiling, “have a try.”

Terry Lute shrank amused from the extended color-box and brushes.

“Ah, no, sir,” said he, blushing. “I used t’, though, when I were a child.”

Cobden blinked.

“Eh?” he ejaculated.

“I isn’t done nothin’ at it since.”

“‘I put away childish things,'” flashed inevitably into Cobden’s mind. He was somewhat alarmed. “Why not since then?” he asked.

“‘Tis not a man’s work, sir.”

“Again, why not?”

“‘Tis a sort o’–silly thing–t’ do.”

“Good God!” Cobden thought, appalled. “The lad has strangled his gift!”

Terry Lute laughed then.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he said quickly, with a wistful smile, seeking forgiveness; “but I been watchin’ you workin’ away there like mad with all them little brushes. An’ you looked so sort o’ funny, sir, that I jus’ couldn’t help–laughin’.” Again he threw back his head, and once more, beyond his will, and innocent of offense and blame, he laughed a great, free laugh.

It almost killed James Cobden.