It chanced that Salim Awad, who loved the star-eyed daughter of Khouri, and in this land sought to ease the sorrow of his passion—it chanced that this Salim was alone with Tommy Hand, the cook’s young son—a tender lad, now upon his first voyage to the Labrador. And the boy began to whimper.
“Dad,” he called to his father, disconsolate, “I wisht—I wisht—I was along o’ you—on your pan.”
The cook came to the edge of the ice. “Does you, lad?” he asked, softly. “Does you wisht you was along o’ me, Tommy? Ah, but,” he said, scratching his beard, bewildered, “you isn’t.”
The space of black water between was short, but infinitely capacious; it was sullen and cold—intent upon its own wretchedness: indifferent to the human pain on either side. The child stared at the water, nostrils lifting, hands clinched, body quivering: thus as if at bay in the presence of an implacable terror. He turned to the open sea, vast, gray, heartless: a bitter waste—might and immensity appalling. Wistfully then to the land, upon which the scattered pack was advancing, moving in disorder, gathering as it went: bold, black coast, naked, uninhabited—but yet sure refuge: being greater than the sea, which it held confined; solid ground, unmoved by the wind, which it flung contemptuously to the sky. And from the land to his father’s large, kind face.
“No, b’y,” the cook repeated, “you isn’t. You sees, Tommy lad,” he added, brightening, as with a new idea, “you isn’t along o’ me.”
Tommy rubbed his eyes, which were now wet. “I wisht,” he sobbed, his under lip writhing, “I was—along o’ you!”
“I isn’t able t’ swim t’ you, Tommy,” said the cook; “an’, ah, Tommy!” he went on, reproachfully, wagging his head, “you isn’t able t’ swim t’ me. I tol’ you, Tommy—when I went down the Labrador las’ year—I tol’ you t’ l’arn t’ swim. I tol’ you, Tommy—don’t you mind the time?—when you was goin’ over the side o’ th’ ol’ Gabriel’s Trumpet, an’ I had my head out o’ the galley, an’ ’twas a fair wind from the sou’east, an’ they was weighin’ anchor up for’ard—don’t you mind the day, lad?—I tol’ you, Tommy, you must l’arn t’ swim afore another season. Now, see what’s come t’ you!” still reproachfully, but with deepening tenderness. “An’ all along o’ not mindin’ your dad! ‘Now,’ says you, ‘I wisht I’d been a good lad an’ minded my dad.’ Ah, Tommy—shame! I’m thinkin’ you’ll mind your dad after this.”
Tommy began to bawl.
“Never you care, Tommy,” said the cook. “The wind’s blowin’ we ashore. You an’ me’ll be saved.”
“I wants t’ be along o’ you!” the boy sobbed.