TUMM of the Good Samaritan kicked the cabin stove into a sputter and roar of flame so lusty that the black weather of Jump Harbor was instantly reduced from arrogant and disquieting menace to an impression of contrast grateful to the heart. “Not bein’ a parson,” said he, roused now from a brooding silence by this radiant inspiration, “I isn’t much of a hand at accountin’ for the mysteries o’ God; an’ never havin’ made a world, I isn’t no critic o’ creation. Still an’ all,” he persisted, in a flash of complaint, “it did seem t’ me, somehow, accordin’ t’ my lights, which wasn’t trimmed at no theological college, that the Maker o’ Archibald Shott o’ Jump Harbor hadn’t been quite kind t’ Arch.” The man shifted his feet in impatient disdain, then laughed—a gently contemptuous shaft, directed at his insolence: perhaps, too, at his ignorance. It fell to a sigh, however, which continued expression, presently, in a glance of poignant bewilderment. “Take un by an’ all,” he pursued, “I was wonderful sorry for Arch. Seemed t’ me, sir, though he bore the sign o’ the Lord’s own hand, as do us all, that he’d but a mean lookout for gracious livin’, after all.
“Poor Archibald Shott!
“‘Arch, b’y,’ says I, ‘you got the disposition of a snake.’
“‘Is I?’ says he. ‘Maybe you’re right, Tumm. I never knowed a snake in a intimate way.’
“‘You got the soul,’ said I, ‘of a ill-born squid.’
“‘Don’t know,’ said he; ‘never seed a squid’s soul.’
“‘Your tongue,’ says I, ‘is a flame o’ fire; ’tis a wonder t’ me she haven’t blistered your lips long afore this.’
“‘Isn’t my fault,’ says he.
“‘No?’ says I. ‘Then who’s t’ blame?’
“‘Well,’ says he, ‘God made me.’