"'Sure,' says I, 'you doesn't like t' think that, does you?'
"'It don't matter what I likes t' think,' says he. 'I've gathered wisdom. I thinks as I must.'
"'I wouldn't believe it, ecod,' says I, 'an I knowed it t' be true!'
"An' I never did."
Tumm chuckled softly in the dark—glancing now at the friendly stars, for such reassurance, perhaps, as he needed, and had had all his genial life.
"A coward or not, as you likes it, an' make up your own minds," Tumm went on; "but 'twas never the sea that scared un. 'They isn't no wind can scare me,' says he, 'for I isn't bad friends with death.' Nor was he! A beat into the gray wind—hangin' on off a lee shore—a hard chance with the Labrador reefs in foggy weather—a drive through the ice after dark: Davy Junk, clever an' harsh at sea, was the skipper for that, mild as he might seem ashore. 'Latch-string out for Death, any time he chances my way, at sea,' says he; 'but I isn't goin' t' die o' want ashore.' So he'd a bad name for drivin' a craft beyond her strength; an' 'twas none but stout hearts—blithe young devils, the most, with a wish t' try their spirit—would ship on the Word o' the Lord. 'Don't you blame me an we're cast away,' says Davy, in fair warnin'. 'An you got hearts in your bellies, you keep out o' this. This here coast,' says he, 'isn't got no mercy on a man that can't get his fish. An' I isn't that breed o' man!' An' so from season t' season he'd growed well-t'-do: a drive in the teeth o' hell, in season—if hell's made o' wind an' sea, as I'm inclined t' think—an' the ease of a bachelor man, between whiles, in his cottage at Rickity Tickle, where he lived all alone like a spick-an'-span spinster. 'Twas not o' the sea he was scared. 'Twas o' want in an unkind world; an' t'was jus' that an' no more that drove un t' hard sailin' an' contempt o' death—sheer fear o' want in the wolf's world that he'd made this world out t' be in his own soul.
"'Twas not the sea: 'twas his own kind he feared an' kep' clear of—men, maids, an' children. Friends? Nar a one—an' 'twas wholly his choosin', too; for the world never fails t' give friends t' the man that seeks un. 'I doesn't want no friends,' says he. 'New friends, new worries; an' the more o' one, the more o' the other. I got troubles enough in this here damned world without takin' aboard the thousand troubles o' friends. An' I 'low they got troubles enough without sharin' the burden o' mine. Me a friend! I'd only fetch sorrow t' the folk that loved me. An' so I don't want t' have nothin' t' do with nobody. I wants t' cotch my fish in season—an' then I wants t' be left alone. Hate or love: 'tis all the same—trouble for the hearts o' folk on both sides. An', anyhow, I isn't got nothin' t' do with this world. I'm only lookin' on. No favors took,' says he, 'an' none granted.' An', well—t' be sure—in the way the world has—the world o' Rickity Tickle an' the Labrador let un choose his own path. But it done Davy Junk no good that any man could see; for by fits he'd be bitter as salt, an' by starts he'd be full o' whimpers an' sighs as a gale's full o' wind, an' between his fits an' his starts 'twas small rest that he had, I'm thinkin'. He'd no part with joy, for he hated laughter, an' none with rest, for he couldn't abide ease o' mind; an' as for sorrow, 'twas fair more than he could bear t' look upon an' live, for his conscience was alive an' loud in his heart, an' what with his religion he lived in despite of its teachin'.
"I've considered an' thought sometimes, overcome a bit by the spectacle o' grief, an' no stars showin', that had Davy Junk not been wonderful tender o' heart he'd have nursed no spite against God's world; an' whatever an' all, had he but had the power an' wisdom, t' strangle his conscience in its youth he'd have gained peace in his own path, as many a man afore un.
"'Isn't my fault!' says he, one night. 'Can't blame me!'
"'What's that, Skipper Davy?'