Page:Harper's New Monthly Magazine - v108.djvu/470

446 store by the goin's on o' the devil than you does, sir, I takes that yarn for true. I sailed along o' Skipper Jim, sir. Believe me, sir, I knowed him. He was a lank old man, with a beard that used t' put me in mind of a dead shrub on a cliff. Old, an' tall, an' skinny he was; an' the flesh of his face was sort o' wet an' whitish, as if it had no feelin'. They wasn't a thing in the way o' wind or sea that Skipper Jim was afeard of. I like a brave man so well as anybody does, but I haven't no love for a fool; an' I've seed him beat out o' safe harbor, with all canvas set, when other schooners was reefed down an' runnin' for shelter. Many a time I've took my trick at the wheel when the most I hoped for was three minutes t' say my prayers.

Skipper, sir,' we used t' say, when 'twas lookin' black an' nasty t' win'ard an' we was wantin' t' run for the handiest harbor, tis like you'll be holdin' on for Rocky Cove. Sure, you've no call t' run for harbor from this here blow!'

Stand by that main-sheet there!' he'd yell. 'Let her off out o' the wind. We'll be makin' for Harbor Round for shelter. Holdin' on, did you say? My dear man, they's a whirlwind brewin'!'

"An' that was all right. But if 'twas blowin' hard—a nor'east snorter, with the gale raisin' a wind - lop on the swell, an' the night comin' down—if 'twas blowin' barb'rous hard, sometimes we'd get scared.

Skipper,' we couldn't help say in', tis time t' get out o' this. Leave us run for shelter, man, for our lives!'

Steady, there, at the wheel!' he'd sing out. 'Keep her on her course. 'Tis no more than a clever sailin' breeze.'

"Believe me, sir," Docks sighed, "they wasn't a port Skipper Jim wouldn't make, whatever the weather, if he could trade a dress or a Bible or a what-not for a quintal o' fish. So it wasn't pleasant sailin' along o' him in the fall o' the year, when the wind was all in the nor'east, an' the shore was a lee shore every night o' the week. No, sir! 'twasn't pleasant sailin' along o' Skipper Jim in the old Sink or Swim. On no account, 'twasn't pleasant! Believe me, sir, when I lets my eyes look back through the fog o' years—when I lets my heart feel again the fears o' them old days—I haven't no love left for Jim. No, sir! doin' what he done at the last, I haven't no love left for Jim.

It's fish I wants, b'y,' says he t' me, 'an' they's no one 'll keep un from me.'

Dear man!' says I, pointin' t' the scales, 'haven't you got no conscience?'

Conscience!' says he. 'What's that?'

"Well, sir, as you knows, the time the Frenchman took the smallpox t' the Labrador there was a wonderful cotch o' fish down there. An' Skipper Jim he up an' cusses the smallpox, an' says he'll make a v'y'ge of it, no matter what. I'm thinkin' 'twas all the fault o' the cook, the skipper bein' the contrary man he was; for the cook he says he've signed t' cook the grub, an' he'll cook 'til he drops in his tracks, but he haven't signed t' take the smallpox, an' he'll be jiggered for a squid afore he'll sail t' the Labrador. 'Smallpox!' says the skipper. ^ Who says 'tis the smallpox ? I says 'tis the chicken-pox.' So the cook—the skipper havin' the eyes he had—says he'll sail t' the Labrador all right, but he'll see himself hanged for a mutineer afore he'll enter the port o' St. Mark. 'St. Mark, is it?' says the skipper. ' An' is that where they've the—the—smallpox?' says he. 'We'll lay a course for St. Mark the morrow. I'll prove 'tis the chicken-pox or eat the man that has it.' So the cook—the skipper havin' the eyes he had—says he ain't afraid o' no smallpox, but he knows what 'll come of it if the crew gets ashore.

Ho, ho! cook,' says the skipper. 'You'll go ashore along o' me, me boy.'

"The next day we laid a course for St. Mark, with a fair wind; an' we dropped anchor in the cove that night. In the mornin', sure enough, the skipper took the cook an' the first hand ashore t' show un a man with the chicken-pox; but I was kep' aboard takin' in fish, for such was the evil name the place had along o' the smallpox that we was the only trader in the harbor, an' had all the fish we could handle.

Skipper,' says I, when they come aboard, 'is it the smallpox?'

Docks, b'y,' says he, lookin' me square in the eye, 'you never yet heard me take back my words. But I tells you what, b'y, I ain't hankerin' after a bite o' what I seed!'