“‘What you sayin’ that for, Tumm?’ says he. ‘What you mean, Tumm? ... My God!’ says he, ‘what is I gone an’ done? Who was that, Tumm? My God! Tell me! What is I done?’
“I couldn’t find no words t’ tell un.
“‘Oh, make haste,’ says he, ‘afore I drifts away!’
“‘Dear God!’ says I, ‘’twas Toby!’
“An’ he fell flat on the ice....An’ I didn’t see Jowl no more for four year. He was settled at Mad Tom’s Harbor then, where you seed un t’-day; an’ his wife was dead, an’ he didn’t go no more t’ the Labrador, nor t’ the ice, but fished the Mad Tom grounds with hook-an’-line on quiet days, an’ was turned timid, they said, with fear o’ the sea....”
The Good Samaritan ran softly through the slow, sleepy sea, bound across the bay to trade the ports of the shore.
“I tells you, sir,” Tumm burst out, “’tis hell. Life is! Maybe not where you hails from, sir; but ’tis on this coast. I ’low where you comes from they don’t take lives t’ save their own?”
“Not to save their own,” said I.
He did not understand.