"'My duty, Skipper Davy.'
"'Oh,' says he, 'you don't owe me nothin', I'm deep in debt t' you.'
"'Twas a harsh season for Labrador-men. Fish? Fish enough—but bitter t' take from the seas off Pinch-Me. The wind was easterly, raw, wet, an' foggy, blowin' high an' low, an' the ice went scrapin' down the coast, an' the big black-an'-white seas come tumblin' in from Greenland. There was no lee for the Word o' the Lord in that weather: she lied off the big cliffs o' Pinch-Me, kickin' her heels, writhin' about, tossin' her head; an' many's the time, in the drivin' gales o' that season, I made sure she'd pile up on the rocks, in the frothy little cove between the Thumb an' the Finger, where the big waves went t' smash with a boom-bang-swish an' hiss o' drippin' thunder. By day 'twas haul the traps—pull an oar an' fork the catch with a back on fire, cracked hands, salt-water sores t' the elbow, soggy clothes, an' an empty belly; an' by night 'twas split the fish—slash an' gut an' stow away, in the torchlight, with sticky eyelids, hands an' feet o' lead, an' a neck as limp as death. I learned a deal about life—an' about the worth of a dollar in labor. 'Take that!' says Skipper Davy, with the toe of his boot, 'an' I'm sorry t' have to do it, but you can't fall asleep on a stack o' green cod at two o'clock in the mornin' an' be a success in life. Try that!' says he, with the flat of his hand, 'though it grieves me sore t' hurt you.' But whatever an' all, us loaded the Word o' the Lord—an' stowed the gear away, an' fell down t' sleep in our tracks, an' by an' by lied in wait for a fair wind t' the Newf'un'land outports. An' there comes a night—a fine, clear, starry night like this—with good prospects o' haulin' out at break o' day. An' I could sleep no longer, an' I went on deck alone, t' look up at the sky, an' t' dream dreams, maybe, accordin' t' my youth an' hope an' the good years I'd lived at Rickity Tickle.
"A lovely night: still an' starlit—with a flash o' northern lights abroad, an' the ol' Word o' the Lord lyin' snug asleep in a slow, black sea.
"Skipper Davy come up. 'Tumm,' says he, 'is you on deck?'
"'Ay, sir.'
"'Where is you, b'y?'
"'Lyin' here, sir,' says I, 'cuddled down on a cod-net.'
"'Now that the labor is over,' says he, 'I'm all tired out an' downcast.' He sot down beside me. 'You doesn't bear no malice for all them kicks an' cuffs, does you?' says he. 'You sees, lad, I—I—isn't used t' bein' fond o' nobody—an' I 'low I don't know how very well—though I done my best.'
"'Sure,' says I, 'I've no malice?'