CHAPTER XXIII
_In Which, While Doctor Luke and Billy Topsail Rest Unsuspecting at Candlestick Cove, Tom Lute, the Father of the Little Fiddler of Amen Island, Sharpens an Axe in the Wood-Shed, and the Reader is Left to Draw His Own Conclusions Respecting the Sinister Business_
It was the boast of the Little Fiddler of Amen Island that he had lamedmany a man and maid. "An' ecod!" said he, his blue eyes alight, hisclean little teeth showing in a mischievous grin, his round cheeksflushed with delight in the gift of power; "there's no leg between theNorman Light an' Cape Mugford so sodden it can balk me when I've thewind in my favour!"--meaning to imply, with more truth than modesty,that the alluring invitation of his music was altogether irresistiblewhen he was in the mood to provoke a response.
"Had I the will," said he, "I could draw tears from the figurehead o'the _Roustabout_. An' one o' these days, when I've the mind t' show mypower," said he, darkly, "maybe I'll do it, too!"
He was young--he was twelve. Terry Lute was his name. To be known asthe Little Fiddler of Amen Island as far north as the world of thatcoast sailed was the measure of the celebrity he coveted. And that was agood deal: it is a long way for fame to carry--north to the uttermostfishing-berths of the Labrador. Unquestionably the Little Fiddler ofAmen Island was of the proportions of a Master.
It was aboard a trading schooner--a fly-by-night visitor at Amen Island(not Skinflint Sam's trader from Ragged Run)--that the Little Fiddler ofAmen Island had first clapped eyes on a fiddle and heard the strains ofit. That was long ago--oh, long, long ago! Terry Lute was a mere child,then, as he recalled, in a wistful amusement with those old days, andwas accustomed to narrate--seven or thereabouts. An' 'twas the month o'June--sweet weather, ecod! (said he) an' after dark an' the full o' themoon. And Terry had harkened to the strain--some plaintive imaginings ofthe melancholy clerk in the cabin, perhaps; and he had not been able tobear more--not another wail or sob of it (said he)--but had run fulltilt to his mother's knee to tell her first of all the full wonder ofthe adventure.
'Twas called a fiddle (said he)--'twas played with what they called abow; an' oh, woman (said he), what music could be made by means of it!And Terry could play it--he had seen the clerk sawin' away--sawin' an'sawin' away; an' he had learned how 'twas done jus' by lookin'--in amere peep. 'Twas nothin' at all t' do (said he)--not a whit o' botherfor a clever lad. Jus' give un a fiddle an' a bow--he'd show un how'twas done!
"I got t' have one, mama!" he declared. "Oo-sh! I jus' got t'!"
His mother laughed at this fine fervour.
"Mark me!" he stormed. "I'll have one o' they fiddles afore very long.An' I'll have folk fair shakin' their legs off t' the music I makes!"
* * * * *
When old Bob Likely, the mail-man, travelling afoot, southbound fromElegant Tickle to Our Harbour and the lesser harbours of Mad Harry andThank-the-Lord, a matter of eighty miles--when old Bob Likely, on thenight of Doctor Luke's arrival at Candlestick Cove, rounded Come-AlongPoint of Amen Island and searched the shadows ahead for hisentertainment, his lodgings for the night were determined anddisclosed.
It was late--a flurry of snow falling and the moon overcast with athickening drab scud; and old Bob Likely's disheartened expectation onthe tumbled ice of Ships' Run, between Point o' Bay of the HarbourlessShore and Amen Island, had consequently discovered the cottages of hisdestination dark--the windows black, the fires dead, the kitchens frostyand the folk of Amen Island long ago turned in.
Of the thirty cottages of Amen, however, snuggled under thick blanketsof snow, all asleep in the gray night, one was wide awake--lighted up asthough for some festivity; and for the hospitality of its lamps andsmoking chimney old Bob Likely shaped his astonished course.
"'Tis a dance!" he reflected, heartening his step. "I'll shake a foot ifI lame myself!"
Approaching Tom Lute's cottage from the harbour ice, old Bob Likelycocked his ear for the thump and shuffle of feet and the lively music ofthe Little Fiddler of Amen Island. It was the Little Fiddler's way toboast: "They'll sweat the night! Mark me! I'm feelin' fine. They'll shedtheir jackets! I'll have their boots off!"
And old Bob Likely expected surely to discover the Little Fiddler,perched on the back of a chair, the chair aloft on the kitchen table,mischievously delighting in the abandoned antics of the dancers, thewhile a castaway sealing crew, jackets shed and boots kicked off,executed a reel with the maids of Amen Island.
But there was no music--no thump or shuffle of feet or lively strain;the house was still--except for a whizz and metallic squeaking in thekitchen shed to which old Bob Likely made his way to lay off the sacredbag of His Majesty's Mail and his own raquets and brush himself clean ofsnow.
* * * * *
Tom Lute was whirling a grindstone by candle-light in the shed. When BobLikely lifted the latch and pushed in he was interrupted and startled.
"Who's that?" he demanded.
"'Tis His Majesty's Mail, Tom."
"That you, Bob?" Tom's drawn face lightened with heartiness. "Well,well! Come in. You're welcome. We've need of a lusty man in this housethe night. If the thing haves t' be done, Bob, you'll come handy forholdin'. You come across from Candlestick?"
Bob threw off his pack.
"No," said he, "I come over from Point o' Bay."
"Up from Laughter Bight, Bob?"
"All the way."
"Any word o' Doctor Luke down north?"
"Ay; he's down north somewheres."
"Whereabouts, Bob?"
"I heard of un at Trap Harbour."
"Trap Harbour! Was he workin' north, Bob?"
"There was sickness at Huddle Cove."
"At Huddle Cove? My, my! 'Tis below Cape Blind. He'll not be this way ina fortnight. Oh, dear me!"
By this time His Majesty's Mail was stamping his feet and brooming thesnow from his seal-hide boots. In answer to his violence the kitchendoor fell ajar. And Bob Likely cocked his ear. Queer sounds--singularscraps of declaration and pleading--issued to the wood-shed.
There was the tap-tap of a wooden leg. Bob Likely identified thepresence and agitated pacing of the maternal grandfather of the LittleFiddler of Amen Island. And there was a whimper and a sob. It was theLittle Fiddler.
A woman crooned:
"Hush, dear--ah, hush, now!"
A high-pitched, querulous voice:
"That's what we done when I sailed along o' Small Sam Small aboard the_Royal Bloodhound_." And repeated, the wooden leg tap-tapping meanwhile:"That's what we done aboard the _Royal Bloodhound_. Now, mark me! That'swhat we done t' Cap'n Small Sam Small."
A young roar, then:
"I'll never have it done t' me!"
And the woman again:
"Ah, hush, dear! Never mind! Ah--hush, now!"
To which there responded a defiant bawl:
"I tells you I won't have it done t' me!"
By all this, to be sure, old Bob Likely, with his ear cocked and hismouth fallen open in amazement, was deeply mystified.
"Look you, Tom!" said he, suspiciously; "what you doin' out here in thefrost?"
"Who? Me?" Tom was evasive and downcast.
"Ay."
"Nothin' much."
"'Tis a cold place for that, Tom. An' 'tis a poor lie you're tellin'.'Tis easy t' see, Tom, that you're busy."
"Ah, well, I got a little job on hand."
"What is your job?"
"This here little job I'm doin' now?"
"Ay."
"Nothin' much."
"What _is_ it?"
Tom was reluctant. "I'm puttin' an edge on my axe," he replied.
"What for, Tom?"
Tom hesitated. "Well----" he drawled. And then, abruptly: "Nothin'much." He was both grieved and agitated.
"But what _for_?"
"I wants it good an' sharp."
"What you want it good an' sharp for?"
"An axe serves best," Tom evaded, "when 'tis sharp."
/>
"Look you, Tom!" said Bob; "you're behavin' in a very queer way, an' Igives you warnin' o' the fac'. What happens? Here I comes quiteunexpected on you by candle-light in the shed. Who is I? I'm HisMajesty's Mail. Mark that, Tom! An' what does I find you doin'? Puttin'an edge on an axe. I asks you why you're puttin' an edge on your axe.An' you won't tell. If I didn't know you for a mild man, Tom, I'd fancyyou was tired o' your wife."
"Tired o' my wife!" Tom exploded, indignantly. "I isn't goin' t' kill mywife!"
"Who _is_ you goin' t' kill?"
"I isn't goin' t' kill nobody."
"Well, _what_ you goin' t' kill?"
"I isn't goin' t' kill nothin'."
"Well, then," Bob burst out, "what in thunder is you puttin' an edge onyour axe for out here in the frost by candle-light at this time o'night?"
"Who? Me?"
"Ay--you!"
"I got some doctorin' t' do."
Bob lifted his brows. "Hum!" he coughed. "You usually do your doctorin'with an axe?" he inquired.
"No," said Tom, uneasily; "not with an axe."
"What you usually use, Tom?"
"What I usually uses, Bob," Tom replied, "is a decoction an' a spoon."
"Somebody recommend an axe for this complaint?"
"'Tisn't that, Bob. 'Tis this way. When I haves a job t' do, Bob, Ialways uses what serves best an' lies handy. That's jus' plain commonsense an' cleverness. Well, then, jus' now an axe suits me to a tee. An'so I'm puttin' a good edge on the only axe I got."
"An axe," Bob observed, "will do quick work."
"That's jus' what I thought!" cried Tom, delighted. "Quick an'painless."
"There's jus' one trouble about an axe," Bob went on, dryly, "when usedin the practice o' medicine. I never heard it stated--but I fancy 'tistrue. What's done with an axe," he concluded, "is hard t' repair."