Harbor Tales Down North by Norman Duncan (top 5 books to read txt) 📖

/>
"'I--I--I forgot.'

"'I'm sorry--Tim.'

"'Oh, Mary, I didn't _want_ to!' says Tim. 'That's the truth of it, dear. I--I _hated_--t' do it.'

"'An' you said never a word comin' up the hill?'

"'God's sake!' cries Tim, like a man beggin' mercy, 'I _couldn't_ say a word like that!'

"Mary turned then t' me. 'Tumm,' says she, 'little Toby--is dead.'

"'Dead, Mary!'

"'We didn't get much more than--jus' one good look at the little fellow--afore he left us.'

* * * * *


"When I took Tim Mull aboard the _Call Again_ that night," the tale ran on, "'twas all clear above. What fog had been hangin' about had gone off with a little wind from the warm inland places. The lights o' Harbor--warm lights--gleamed all round about Black hills: still water in the lee o' the rocks. The tinkle of a bell fell down from the slope o' Lookout; an' a maid's laugh--sweet as the bell itself--come ripplin' from the shadows o' the road. Stars out; the little beggars kep' winkin' an' winkin' away at all the mystery here below jus' as if they knowed all about it an' was sure we'd be surprised when we come t' find out.

"'Tumm, ol' shipmate,' says Tim Mull, 'I got a lie on my soul.'

"''Tis a poor place for a burden like that.'

"'I'm fair wore out with the weight of it.'

"'Will you never be rid of it, man?'

"'Not an I keeps on bein' a man.'

"'So, Tim?'

"He put his hand on my shoulder. 'Is you a friend o' Mary's?' says he.

"''Tis a thing you must know without tellin'.'

"'She's a woman, Tumm.'

"'An' a wife.'

"'Woman an' wife,' says he, 'an' I loves her well, God knows!' The tinkle o' the bell on the black slope o' Lookout caught his ear. He listened--until the tender little sound ceased an' sleep fell again on the hill. 'Tumm,' says he, then, all at once, 'there never _was_ no baby! She's deceivin' Tinkle Tickle t' save her pride!'"

Tumm closed the book he had read page by page.


VII

THE LITTLE NIPPER O' HIDE-AN'-SEEK HARBOR

We nosed into Hide-an'-Seek Harbor jus' by chance. What come o' the venture has sauce enough t' tell about in any company that ever sot down in a forecastle of a windy night t' listen to a sentimental ol' codger like me spin his yarns. In the early dusk o' that night, a spurt o' foul weather begun t' swell out o' the nor'east--a fog as thick as soup an' a wind minded for too brisk a lark at sea. Hard Harry Hull 'lowed that we might jus' as well run into Hide-an'-Seek for a night's lodgin' in the lee o' the hills, an' pick up what fish we could trade the while, there bein' nothin' t' gain by hangin' off shore an' splittin' the big seas all night long in the rough. 'Twas a mean harbor, as it turned out--twelve score folk, ill-spoken of abroad, but with what justice none of us knowed; we had never dropped anchor there before. I was clerk o' the _Robin Red Breast_ in them days--a fore-an'-aft schooner, tradin' trinkets an' grub for salt fish between Mother Burke o' Cape John an' the Newf'un'land ports o' the Straits o' Belle Isle; an' Hard Harry Hull, o' Yesterday Cove, was the skipper o' the craft. Ay, I means Hard Harry hisself--he that gained fame thereafter as a sealin' captain an' takes the _Queen o' the North_ out o' St. John's t' the ice every spring o' the year t' this present.

Well, the folk come aboard in a twitter an' flutter o' curiosity, flockin' to a new trader, o' course, like young folk to a spectacle; an' they demanded my prices, an' eyed an' fingered my stock o' gee-gaws an' staples, an' they whispered an' stared an' tittered, an' they promised at last t' fetch off a quintal or two o' fish in the mornin', it might be, an the fog had blowed away by that time. 'Twas after dark afore they was all ashore again--all except a sorry ol' codger o' the name o' Anthony Lot, who had anchored hisself in the cabin with Skipper Harry an' me in expectation of a cup o' tea or the like o' that. By that time I had my shelves all put t' rights an' was stretched out on my counter, with my head on a roll o' factory-cotton, dawdlin' along with my friendly ol' flute. I tooted a ballad or two--Larboard Watch an' Dublin Bay; an' my fingers bein' limber an' able, then, I played the weird, sad songs o' little Toby Farr, o' Ha-ha Harbor, which is more t' my taste, mark you, than any o' the fashionable music that drifts our way from St. John's. Afore long I cotched ear of a foot-fall on deck--tip-toein' aft, soft as a cat; an' I knowed that my music had lured somebody close t' the cabin hatch t' listen, as often it did when I was meanderin' away t' ease my melancholy in the evenin'.

"On deck!" says Skipper Harry. "Hello, you!"

Nobody answered the skipper's hail. I 'lowed then that 'twas a bashful child I had lured with my sad melody.

"Come below," the skipper bawled, "whoever you is! I say--come below!"

"Isn't nobody there," says Anthony Lot.

"I heared a step," says I.

"Me, too," says Skipper Harry.

"Nothin' o' no consequence," says Anthony. "I wouldn't pay no attention t' that."

"Somebody up there in the rain," says the skipper.

"Oh, I knows who 'tis," says Anthony. "'Tisn't nobody that amounts t' nothin' very much."

"Ah, well," says I, "we'll have un down here out o' the dark jus' the same."

"On deck there!" says the skipper again. "You is welcome below, sir!"

Down come a lad in response t' Hard Harry's hail--jus' a pallid, freckled little bay-noddie, with a tow head an' blue eyes, risin' ten years, or thereabouts, mostly skin, bones an' curiosity, such as you may find in shoals in every harbor o' the coast. He was blinded by the cabin lamp, an' brushed the light out of his eyes; an' he was abashed--less shy than cautious, however, mark you; an' I mind that he shuffled and grinned, none too sure of his welcome--halted, doubtful an' beseechin', like a dog on a clean kitchen floor. I marked in a sidelong glance, too, when I begun t' toot again, that his wee face was all in a pucker o' bewilderment, as he listened t' the sad strains o' Toby Farr's music, jus' as though he knowed he wasn't able t' rede the riddles of his life, jus' yet awhile, but would be able t' rede them, by an' by, when he growed up, an' expected t' find hisself in a pother o' trouble when he mastered the answers. I didn't know his name, then, t' be sure; had I knowed it, as know it I did, afore the night was over, I might have put down my flute, in amazement, an' stared an' said, "Well, well, well!" jus' as everybody did, no doubt, when they clapped eyes on that lad for the first time an' was told whose son he was.

"What's that wee thing you're blowin'?" says he.

"This here small contrivance, my son," says I, "is called a flute."

The lad scowled.

"Is she?" says he.

"Ay," says I, wonderin' wherein I had offended the wee feller; "that's the name she goes by in the parts she hails from."

"Hm-m," says he.

I seed that he wasn't thinkin' about the flute--that he was broodin'. All at once, then, I learned what 'twas about.

"I isn't your son," says he.

"That's true," says I. "What about it?"

"Well, you called me your son, didn't you?"

"Oh, well," says I, "I didn't mean----"

"What you do it for?"

'Twas a demand. The wee lad was stirred an' earnest. An' why? I was troubled. 'Twas a queer thing altogether. I seed that a man must walk warily in answer lest he bruise a wound. 'Twas plain that there was a deal o' delicate mystery beneath an' beyond.

"Answer me fair," says I, in banter; "wouldn't a man like me make a fair-t'-middlin' pa for a lad like you?"

That startled un.

"I'd wager no fish on it, sir," says he, "afore I learned more o' your quality."

"Well, then," says I, "you've but a dull outfit o' manners."

He flashed a saucy grin at me. 'Twas agreeable enough. I deserved it. An' 'twas made mild with a twinkle o' humor.

"I've pricked your pride, sir," says he. "I'm sorry."

"Answer me, then, in a mannerly way," says I, "Come now! Would I pass muster as a pa for a lad like you?"

He turned solemn an' earnest.

"You wish you was my pa?" says he.

"'Tis a sudden question," says I, "an' a poser."

"You doesn't, then?"

"I didn't say that," says I. "What you wishin' yourself?"

"I isn't wishin' nothin' at all about it," says he. "All I really wants to know is why you called me your son when I isn't no such thing."

"An' you wants an answer t' that?"

"I'd be grateful, sir."

Skipper Harry got the notion from all this talk, mixed with the eager, wistful look o' the lad, as he searched me with questions, t' ease the wonder that gripped an' hurt un, whatever it was--Skipper Harry got the notion that the lad had no father at all that he knowed of, an' that he sorrowed with shame on that account.

"I wish you was _my_ son," says he, t' hearten un. "Danged if I don't!"

The lad flashed 'round on Skipper Harry an' stared at un with his eyes poppin'.

"What you say jus' then?" says he.

"You heared what I said."

"Say it again, sir, for my pleasure."

"I will," says the skipper, "an' glad to. I says I wish you belonged t' me."

"Is you sure about that?"

Skipper Harry couldn't very well turn back then. Nor was he the man t' withdraw. An' he didn't reef a rag o' the canvas he had spread in his kindly fervor.

"I is," says he. "Why?"

"It makes me wonder. What if you was my pa? Eh? What if you jus' happened t' be?"

"I'd be glad. That's what."

"That's queer!"

"Nothin' queer about it."

"Ah-ha!" says the lad; "'tis wonderful queer!" He cocked his head an' peered at the skipper like an inquisitive bird. "Nobody never said nothin' like that t' me afore," says he. "What you wish I was your son for? Eh?"

"You is clever an' good enough, isn't you?"

"Maybe I is clever. Maybe I'm good, too. I'll not deny that I'm both. What I wants t' know, though, is what you wants me for?"

"I'd be proud o' you."

"What for?"

Skipper Harry lost patience.

"Don't pester me no more," says he. "I've no lad o' my own. That's reason enough."

The wee feller looked the skipper over from his shock o' red hair to his sea-boots, at leisure, an' turned doleful with pity.

"My duty, sir," says he. "I'm sore an' sorry