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“Heed me well, sir!” This t’ the skipper.

“Ay, my son?”

“I isn’t got no pa! My pa’s dead! My pa was hanged by the neck until he was dead for the murder o’ Mean Michael Mitchell o’ Topsail Run!”

Well, that was true. Skipper Harry an’ me knowed that. Everybody in Newf’un’land knowed it. Seven years afore–the hangin’ was done. Sammy Scull was a baby o’ three at the time. ‘Twas a man’s crime, whatever, if a man an’ a crime can be linked with satisfaction. Still an’ all, ’twas a murder, an’ a foul, foul deed for that reason. We’ve few murders in Newf’un’land. They shock us. They’re never forgotten. An’ there was a deal made o’ that one, an’ ’twas still the latest murder–news o’ the trial at St. John’s spread broadcast over the three coasts; an’ talk o’ the black cap an’ the black flag, an’ gruesome tales o’ the gallows an’ the last prayer, an’ whispers o’ the quicklime that ended it all. Sammy Scull could go nowhere in Newf’un’land an’ escape the shadow an’ shame o’ that rope. Let the lad grow t’ manhood? No matter. Let un live it down? He could not. The tongues o’ the gossips would wag in his wake wheresoever he went. Son of John Scull o’ Hide-an’-Seek Harbor! Why, sir, the man’s father was hanged by the neck at St. John’s for the murder o’ Mean Michael Mitchell o’ Topsail Run!

Skipper Harry put a hand on Sammy Scull’s head.

“My son,” says he, “is you quite sure about what you’ve jus’ told us?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How long is you knowed it?”

“Oh, a long, long time, sir! I learned it of a dirty day in the fall o’ last year. Isn’t it–isn’t it true, sir?”

Skipper Harry nodded.

“Ay, my son,” says he; “’tis quite true.”

“Oh, my poor pa!”

Skipper Harry put a finger under the lad’s chin an’ tipped up his face.

“Who tol’ you?” says he.

“I found a ol’ newspaper, sir, in Sandy Spot’s bureau, sir, where I was forbid t’ pry, sir, an’ I read all about it. My pa left one child named Samuel when he was hanged by the neck–an’ that’s me.”

“You’ve told nobody what you learned?”

“No, sir.”

“Why not?”

“I’d liefer pretend not t’ know, sir, when they baited me, an’ so save myself shame.”

“Jus’ so, my son.”

“An’ I jus’ lied an’ lied an’ lied!”

“Mm-m.”

Skipper Harry lifted the lad t’ the counter, then, an’ bent to a level with his eyes.

“Look me in the eye, son,” says he. “I’ve a grave word t’ say t’ you. Will you listen well an’ ponder?”

“I’ll ponder, sir, an you’ll jus’ forgive my fault.”

“Sammy, my son,” says the skipper, “I forgives it freely. Now, listen t’ me. Is you listenin’? Well, now, I knows a snug harbor t’ the south o’ this. Tis called Yesterday Cove. An’ in the harbor is a cottage, an’ in the cottage is a woman; an’ the woman is ample an’ kind. She’ve no lad of her own–that kind, ample woman. She’ve only a husband. That’s me. An’ I been thinkin’—-“

I stirred myself.

“I ‘low I’ll meander for’ard,” says I, “an’ have a cup o’ tea with the hands.”

“Do, Tumm,” says the skipper.

* * * * *

Well, now, I went for’ard t’ have my cup o’ tea an’ brood on this sorry matter. ‘Twas plain, however, what was in the wind; an’ when I went aft again, an’ begun t’ meander along, breathin’ the sad strains o’ Toby Farr’s songs on my flute, the thing had come t’ pass, though no word was said about it. There was the skipper an’ wee Sammy Scull, yarnin’ t’gether like ol’ cronies–the lad with his ears an’ eyes wide t’ the tale that Hard Harry was tellin’. I jus’ wet my whistle with a drop o’ water, t’ limber my lips for the music, an’ whispered away on my flute; but as I played I must listen, an’ as I listened I was astonished, an’ presently I give over my tootin’ altogether, the better t’ hearken t’ the wild yarn that Hard Harry was spinnin’. ‘Twas a yarn that was well knowed t’ me. Man alive! Whew! ‘Twas a tax on the belief–that yarn! Ay, I had heared it afore–the yarn o’ how Hard Harry had chopped a way t’ the crest of an iceberg in foul weather t’ spy out a course above the fog, an’ o’ how he had split the berg in two with the last blow of his ax, an’ falled safe between the halves, an’ swimmed aboard his schooner in a gale o’ wind; an’ though I had heared the tale verified by others, I never could swallow it whole at all, but deemed it the cleverest whopper that ever a man had invented in play.

When Skipper Harry had done, the lad turned t’ me, his face in a flush o’ pride.

“Mister Tumm!” says he.

“Sir t’ you?” says I.

“Is you listenin’ t’ me?”

“I is.”

“Well, then, you listen an’ learn. That’s what I wants you t’ do.”

“I’ll learn all I can,” says I. “What is it?”

Sammy Scull slapped his knee. An’ he laughed a free ripple o’ glee an’ looked Skipper Harry over whilst he vowed the truth of his words. “I’ll lay my liver an’ lights on it,” says he, “that I got the boldest pa….”

That’s all.