“You needn’t worry,” Winton said. “I don’t die so easy. She just got me through the shoulder. You cur, I knowed all along she was too good for you.”
That was his tribute to the girl and thereafter, while McAuliffe cleansed and bandaged his wound roughly, he was silent. His men took him away in the yawl, though McAuliffe urged him to stay till the fog lifted. “I’d see you in hell before I’d stay aboard your ship,” Winton retorted.
As the slow-moving yawl was swallowed by the fog, McAuliffe took his wife to his cabin again. She faced him there under the low-hung lamp and spoke before he could find words.
“My teaching didn’t amount to much, did it?” she asked with a touch of whimsicality. “I stayed here one minute after you went on deck. Then I got the revolver you gave me, even though I had laughed at you when you had insisted that I keep it by me—my father has often told me a story of my mother how she put to sea in a small boat to rescue the crew of a stranded ship. I said to myself: this is danger to my man, too. I will go to him, no matter what. And, oh, Jim, when I faced him there—with his flaming eyes and his rum-hot breath and his coarse, red face—when I knew that somehow he had got the better of you, had hurt you very likely, I was glad to shoot him. What do you think of that?”
“I think,” said the captain warmly, “that that was just the way I would have had you feel. I got one or two good smashes at him before his man took me from behind and I’m glad of that, too. The report of it will get abroad and it will keep me out of brawls. Men will know my old reputation was rock-founded.”
“Well, you can take care of yourself, man to man, when the fight is fair,” his wife said.
He caught her in his arms and drew her to him.
“You’re admiring me for a fighting man,” he challenged her.
For an instant her eyelids veiled her eyes and then they unclosed and she lifted her eyes to his. She lifted her lips, too.
THE ADVENTURES OF BILLY TOPSAIL, by Norman Duncan
CHAPTER I
In Which Young Billy Topsail of Ruddy Cove Puts Out to His First Adventure with His Dog in the Bow of the Punt
From the very beginning it was inevitable that Billy Topsail should have adventures. He was a fisherman’s son, born at Ruddy Cove, which is a fishing harbour on the bleak northeast coast of Newfoundland; and there was nothing else for it. All Newfoundland boys have adventures; but not all Newfoundland boys survive them. And there came, in the course of the day’s work and play, to Billy Topsail, many adventures. The first—the first real adventure in which Billy Topsail was abandoned to his own wit and strength—came by reason of a gust of wind and his own dog. It was not strange that a gust of wind should overturn Billy Topsail’s punt; but that old Skipper should turn troublesome in the thick of the mess was an event the most unexpected.…
Skipper was a Newfoundland dog, born of reputable parents at Back Arm and decently bred in Ruddy Cove. He had black hair, short, straight and wiry—the curly-haired breed has failed on the Island—and broad, ample shoulders, which his forbears had transmitted to him from generations of hauling wood.
He was heavy, awkward and ugly, resembling somewhat a great draft-horse. But he pulled with a will, fended for himself, and within the knowledge of men had never stolen a fish; so he had a high place in the hearts of all the people of the Cove, and a safe one in their estimation.
“Skipper! Skipper! Here, b’y!”
The ringing call, in the voice of Billy Topsail, never failed to bring the dog from the kitchen with an eager rush, when the snow lay deep on the rocks, and all the paths of the wilderness were ready for the sled. He stood stock-still for the harness, and at the first “Hi, b’y! Gee up there!” he bounded away with a wagging tail and a glad bark. It was as if nothing pleased him so much on a frosty morning as the prospect of a hard day’s work.
If the call came in summer-time when Skipper was dozing in the cool shadow of a flake—a platform of boughs for drying fish—he scrambled to his feet, took his clog1 in his mouth and ran, all a-quiver for what might come, to where young Billy waited. If the clog were taken off, as it was almost sure to be, it meant sport in the water. Then Skipper would paw the ground and whine until the stick was flung out for him. But best of all he loved to dive for stones.
At the peep of many a day, too, he went out in the punt to the fishing-grounds with Billy Topsail, and there kept the lad good company all the day long. It was because he sat on the little cuddy in the bow, as if keeping a lookout ahead, that he was called Skipper.
“Sure, ’tis a clever dog, that!” was Billy’s boast. “He would save life—that dog would!”
This was proved beyond doubt when little Isaiah Tommy Goodman toddled over the wharf-head, where he had been playing with a squid. Isaiah Tommy was four years old, and would surely have been drowned had not Skipper strolled down the wharf just at that moment.
Skipper was obedient to the instinct of all Newfoundland dogs to drag the sons of men from the water. He plunged in and caught Isaiah Tommy by the collar of his pinafore. Still following his instinct, he kept the child’s head above water with powerful strokes of his fore paws while he towed him to shore. Then the outcry which Isaiah Tommy immediately set up brought his mother to complete the rescue.
For this deed Skipper was petted for a day and a half, and fed with fried caplin and salt pork, to his evident gratification. No doubt he was persuaded that he had acted worthily. However that be, he continued in merry moods, in affectionate behaviour, in honesty—although the fish were even then drying on the flakes, all exposed—and he carried his clog like a hero.
“Skipper,” Billy Topsail would ejaculate, “you do be a clever dog!”
One day in the spring of the year, when high winds spring suddenly from the land, Billy Topsail was fishing from the punt, the Never Give Up, over the shallows off Molly’s Head. It was “fish weather,” as the Ruddy Cove men say—gray, cold and misty. The harbour entrance lay two miles to the southwest. The bluffs which marked it were hardly discernible, for the mist hung thick off the shore. Four punts and a skiff were bobbing half a mile farther out to sea, their crews fishing with hook and line over the side. Thicker weather threatened and the day was near spent.
“’Tis time to be off home, b’y,” said Billy to the dog. “’Tis getting thick in the sou’west.”
Skipper stretched himself and wagged his tail. He had no word to say, but Billy, who, like all fishermen in remote places, had formed the habit of talking to himself, supplied the answer.
“’Tis that, Billy, b’y,” said he. “The punt’s as much as one hand can manage in a fair wind. An’ ’tis a dead beat to the harbour now.”
Then Billy said a word for himself. “We’ll put in for ballast. The punt’s too light for a gale.”
He sculled the punt to the little cove by the Head, and there loaded her with rocks. Her sails, mainsail and tiny jib, were spread, and she was pointed for Grassy Island, on the first leg of her beat into the wind. By this time two other punts were under way, and the sails of the skiff were fluttering as her crew prepared to beat home for the night. The Never Give Up was ahead of the fleet, and held her lead in such fine fashion as made Billy Topsail’s heart swell with pride.
The wind had gained in force. It was sweeping down from the hills in gusts. Now it fell to a breeze, and again it came swiftly with angry strength. Nor could its advance be perceived, for the sea was choppy and the bluffs shielded the inshore waters.
“We’ll fetch the harbour on the next tack,” Billy muttered to Skipper, who was whining in the bow.
He put the steering oar hard alee to bring the punt about. A gust caught the sails. The boat heeled before it, and her gunwale was under water before Billy could make a move to save her. The wind forced her down, pressing heavily upon the canvas.
“Easy!” screamed Billy.
But the ballast of the Never Give Up shifted, and she toppled over. Boy and dog were thrown into the sea—the one aft, the other forward. Bi
lly dived deep to escape entanglement with the rigging of the boat. He had long ago learned the lesson that presence of mind wins half the fight in perilous emergencies. The coward miserably perishes where the brave man survives. With his courage leaping to meet his predicament, he struck out for windward and rose to the surface.
He looked about for the punt. She had been heavily weighted with ballast, and he feared for her. What was he to do if she had been too heavily weighted? Even as he looked she sank. She had righted under water; the tip of the mast was the last he saw of her.
The sea—cold, fretful, vast—lay all about him. The coast was half a mile to windward; the punts, out to sea, were laboriously beating towards him, and could make no greater speed. He had to choose between the punts and the rocks.
A whine—with a strange note in it—attracted his attention. The big dog had caught sight of him, and was beating the water in a frantic effort to approach quickly. But the dog had never whined like that before.
“Hi, Skipper!” Billy called. “Steady, b’y! Steady!”
Billy took off his boots as fast as he could. The dog was coming nearer, still whining strangely, and madly pawing the water. Billy was mystified. What possessed the dog? It was as if he had been seized with a fit of terror. Was he afraid of drowning? His eyes were fairly flaring. Such a light had never been in them before.
In the instant he had for speculation the boy lifted himself high in the water and looked intently into the dog’s eyes. It was terror he saw in them; there could be no doubt about that, he thought. The dog was afraid for his life. At once Billy was filled with dread. He could not crush the feeling down. Afraid of Skipper—the old, affectionate Skipper—his own dog, which he had reared from a puppy! It was absurd.
But he was afraid, nevertheless—and he was desperately afraid.
“Back, b’y!” he cried. “Get back, sir!”
CHAPTER II
Concerning the Behaviour of Billy Topsail and His Dog in the Water When the Never Give Up Went to the Bottom, and Closing With an Apology and a Wag of the Tail
It chanced that Billy Topsail was a strong swimmer. He had learned to swim where the water is cold—cold, often, as the icebergs stranded in the harbour can make it. The water was bitter cold now; but he did not fear it; nor did he doubt that he could accomplish the long swim which lay before him. It was the unaccountable behaviour of the dog which disturbed him—his failure in obedience, which could not be explained. The dog was now within three yards, and excited past all reason.
“Back, sir!” Billy screamed. “Get back with you!”
Skipper was not deterred by the command. He did not so much as hesitate. Billy raised his hand as if to strike him—a threatening gesture which had sent Skipper home with his tail between his legs many a time. But it had no effect now.
“Get back!” Billy screamed again.
It was plain that the dog was not to be bidden. Billy threw himself on his back, supported himself with his hands and kicked at the dog with his feet.
Skipper was blinded by the splashing. He whined and held back. Then blindly he came again. Billy moved slowly from him, head foremost, still churning the water with his feet. But, swimming thus, he was no match for the dog. With his head thrown back to escape the blows, Skipper forged after him. He was struck in the jaws, in the throat, and again in the jaws. But he pawed on, taking every blow without complaint, and gaining inch by inch. Soon he was so close that the lad could no longer move his feet freely. Then the dog chanced to catch one foot with his paw, and forced it under. Billy could not beat him off.
No longer opposed, the dog crept up—paw over paw, forcing the boy’s body lower and lower. His object was clear to Billy. Skipper, frenzied by terror, the boy thought, would try to save himself by climbing on his shoulders.
“Skipper!” he cried. “You’ll drown me! Get back!”
The futility of attempting to command obedience from a crazy dog struck Billy Topsail with force. He must act otherwise, and that quickly, if he were to escape. There seemed to be but one thing to do. He took a long breath and let himself sink—down—down—as deep as he dared. Down—down—until he retained breath sufficient but to strike to the right and rise again.
The dog—as it was made known later—rose as high as he could force himself, and looked about in every direction, with his mouth open and his ears rigidly cocked. He gave two sharp barks, like sobs, and a long, mournful whine. Then, as if acting upon sudden thought, he dived.
For a moment nothing was to be seen of either boy or dog. There was nothing but a choppy sea in that place. Men who were watching thought that both had followed the Never Give Up to the bottom.
In the momentary respite under water Billy perceived that his situation was desperate. He would rise, he was sure, but only to renew the struggle. How long he could keep the dog off he could not tell. Until the punts came down to his aid? He thought not.
He came to the surface prepared to dive again. But Skipper had disappeared. An ejaculation of thanksgiving was yet on the boy’s lips when the dog’s black head rose and moved swiftly towards him. Billy had a start of ten yards—or something more.
He turned on his side and set off at top speed. There was no better swimmer among the lads of the harbour. Was he a match for a powerful Newfoundland dog? It was soon evident that he was not.
Skipper gained rapidly. Billy felt a paw strike his foot. He put more strength into his strokes. Next the paw struck the calf of his leg. The dog was upon him now—pawing his back. Billy could not sustain the weight. To escape, that he might take up the fight in another way, he dived again.
The dog was waiting when Billy came up—waiting eagerly, on the alert to continue the chase.
“Skipper, old fellow—good old dog!” Billy called in a soothing voice. “Steady, sir! Down, sir—back!”
The dog was not to be deceived. He came, by turns whining and gasping. He was more excited, more determined, than ever. Billy waited for him. The fight was to be face to face. The boy had determined to keep him off with his hands until strength failed—to drown him if he could. All love for the dog had gone out of his heart. The weeks of close and merry companionship, of romps and rambles and sport, were forgotten. Billy was fighting for life. So he waited without pity, hoping only that his strength might last until he had conquered.
When the dog was within reach Billy struck him in the face. A snarl and an angry snap were the result.
Rage seemed suddenly to possess the dog. He held back for a moment, growling fiercely, and then attacked with a rush. Billy fought as best he could, trying to clutch his enemy by the neck and to force his head beneath the waves. The effort was vain; the dog eluded his grasp and renewed the attack. In another moment he had laid his heavy paws on the boy’s shoulders.
The weight was too much for Billy. Down he went; freed himself, and struggled to the surface, gasping for breath. It appeared to him now that he had but a moment to live. He felt his self-possession going from him—and at that moment his ears caught the sound of a voice.
“Put your arm—”
The voice seemed to come from far away. Before the sentence was completed, the dog’s paws were again on Billy’s shoulders and the water stopped the boy’s hearing. What were they calling to him? The thought that some helping hand was near inspired him. With this new courage to aid, he dived for the third time. The voice was nearer—clearer—when he came up, and he heard every word.
“Put your arm around his neck!” one man cried.
“Catch him by the scruff of the neck!” cried another.
Billy’s self-possession returned. He would follow this direction. Skipper swam anxiously to him. It may be that he wondered what this new attitude meant. It may be that he hoped reason had returned to the boy—that at last he would allow himself to be saved. Billy caught the dog by the scruff of the neck when he was within arm’s length. Skipper wagged his tail and turned about.
There was a brief pause, during which the fai
thful old dog determined upon the direction he would take. He espied the punts, which had borne down with all speed. Towards them he swam, and there was something of pride in his mighty strokes, something of exultation in his whine. Billy struck out with his free hand, and soon boy and dog were pulled over the side of the nearest punt.
Through it all, as Billy now knew, the dog had only wanted to save him.
That night Billy Topsail took Skipper aside for a long and confidential talk. “Skipper,” said he, “I beg your pardon. You see, I didn’t know what ’twas you wanted. I’m sorry I ever had a hard thought against you, and I’m sorry I tried to drown you. When I thought you only wanted to save yourself, ’twas Billy Topsail you were thinking of. When I thought you wanted to climb atop of me, ’twas my collar you wanted to catch. When I thought you wanted to bite me, ’twas a scolding you were giving me for my foolishness. Skipper, b’y, honest, I beg your pardon. Next time I’ll know that all a Newfoundland dog wants is half a chance to tow me ashore. And I’ll give him a whole chance. But, Skipper, don’t you think you might have given me a chance to do something for myself?”
At which Skipper wagged his tail.
CHAPTER III
Describing the Haunts and Habits of Devil-Fish and Informing the Reader of Billy Topsail’s Determination to Make a Capture at all Hazards
When the Minister of Justice for the colony of Newfoundland went away from Ruddy Cove by the bay steamer, he chanced to leave an American magazine at the home of Billy Topsail’s father, where he had passed the night. The magazine contained an illustrated article on the gigantic species of cephalopods2 popularly known as devil-fish.
Billy Topsail did not know what a cephalopod was; but he did know a squid when he saw its picture, for Ruddy Cove is a fishing harbour, and he had caught many a thousand for bait. So when he found that to the lay mind a squid and a cephalopod were one and the same, save in size, he read the long article from beginning to end, doing the best he could with the strange, long words.
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