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“Did my pa get the gold medal from His Gracious Majesty?”

“He did, in due course.”

“Ah-ha!” crowed the lad t’ Skipper Harry. “I tol’ you so!”

Skipper Harry’s face had gone hard. He looked Anthony Lot in the eye until Anthony begun t’ shift with uneasiness an’ shame.

“Anthony,” says he, “does that sort o’ thing give you any real pleasure?”

“What sort o’ thing?”

“Tellin’ a yarn like that to a wee lad like he?”

“‘Twasn’t nothin’ wrong.”

“Nothin’ wrong!–t’ bait un so?”

“Jus’ a bit o’ sport.”

“Sorry sport!”

“Ah, well, he’ve growed used to it.”

T’ this the lad was listenin’ like a caribou o’ the barrens scentin’ peril.

“‘Twas a naughty thing t’ do, ye ol’ crab!” says the skipper t’ Anthony Lot.

The lad struck in.

“Isn’t it true?” says he.

Skipper Harry cotched the quiver o’ doubt an’ fear in his voice an’ was warned jus’ in time. There was jus’ one thing t’ say.

“True?” says the skipper. “Sure, ’tis true! Who doubts it?”

“Not me,” says Anthony.

“Ye hadn’t better!” says the skipper.

“You bet ye ’tis true!” says I. “I’ve heared that selfsame tale many a time afore.”

“Sammy, my son,” says the skipper, “who is your father anyhow?”

The lad fair glowed with pride, as it seemed t’ me then. Up went his head–out went his wee chest; an’ his eyes went wide an’ shinin’, an’ he smiled, an’ the blood o’ pride flushed his cheeks red.

“I’m John Scull’s son!” says he.

Anthony Lot throwed back his head an’ shot a laugh through his musty beard.

“Now,” says he, “d’ye think it comical?”

Skipper Harry shook his head.

“God, no!” says he.

“What’s the matter?” says the lad. His mouth was twitchin’. ‘Twas awful t’ behold. ‘Tis worse when I think o’ the whole truth of his state. “What’s–what’s the m-m-matter?” says he. “Wh-wh-what’s the matter?”

Skipper Harry an’ me jus’ sot there starin’ at un. John Scull’s son! Everybody in Newf’un’land knowed all about John Scull o’ Hide-an’-Seek Harbor.

* * * * *

‘Twas plain–the whole tale o’ the lad’s little life. In all my travels afore I had never encountered a child in a state as woeful an’ helpless as that. In the beginnin’, no doubt, ’twas needful t’ lie t’ un–a baby, no more, bewildered by a mystery that he had now forgot all about, an’ plyin’ folk with questions in ease o’ the desolation in which his father had plunged un. The folk o’ Hide-an’-Seek Harbor had lied in kindness at first–’twas all plain; an’ in the drift o’ the years since then, little by little, more an’ more, with less conscience all the while, they had lied for their own amusement. Look you, the lad had boasted, no doubt, an’ was a comical sight when he did–chest out an’ face scowlin’ an’ flushed, as we had seed it that night, an’ his wee legs spread an’ his way growed loud, whilst he declared the virtues of a father whose fortune was knowed to them all, young an’ old alike, an’ whose fate was a by-word. In the end, I’m thinkin’, ’twas a cherished sport, followed by the folk o’ the harbor an’ all strangers, thus t’ tell wild tales t’ the lad, an’ the wilder the more comical, of his father’s great deeds; an’ ’twas a better sport still, an’ far more laughable, t’ gather ’round un, at times, for their own amusement an’ the entertainment o’ travelers, an’ hear un repeat, with his own small inventions t’ season them, the whoppin’ yarns they had teached un t’ believe.

Skipper Harry was married to a maid o’ Linger Tickle, an’ was jus’ a average, kindly sort o’ man, with a heart soft enough, as the hearts o’ most men is, t’ be touched by the woes o’ children, an’ the will t’ act rashly in relief o’ them, come what might of it by an’ by, if ’twas no hard riddle t’ know what t’ do at once. Sailin’ our coast, I had heared un declare, poundin’ it out on the forecastle table, that the man who debated a deed o’ kindness with his own heart, or paused t’ consider an’ act o’ punishment in company with his own reason, shamed his manhood thereby, an’ fetched his soul into jeopardy. They called un Hard Harry, true enough; but ’twas not because his disposition was harsh–’twas because he was a hard driver at sea an’ put the craft he was master of to as much labor as she could bear at all times. Knowin’ the breed o’ the man as well as I knowed it, I could tell that he was troubled, whether by wrath or grief, there was no knowin’ which, an’ would explode one way or t’other afore long. He must on deck for a fresh breath o’ the wet night, says he, or smother; an’ he would presently drop below again, says he, in command of his temper an’ restlessness. I seed, too, that the lad wished t’ follow–he watched the skipper up the ladder, like a doubtful dog, an’ got up an’ wagged hisself; but he thought better o’ the intrusion an’ set sail on another vast whopper in praise o’ the father whose story we knowed.