The Deemster. Hall Sir Caine

Och, 'deed now, they've got their feelings same as anybody else."

      The parson had taken the lad's measure at a glance.

      "You should see the shoals of them lying round the nets, watching the others – their mothers and sisters, as you might say – who've got their gills 'tangled. And when you haul the net up, away they go at a slant in millions and millions, just the same as lightning going through the water. Och, yes, yes, leave them alone for having their feelings."

      "It does seem cruel, Davy, eh?"

      Davy looked puzzled; he was reasoning out a grave problem.

      "Well, sir, that's the mortal strange part of it. It does look cruel to catch them, sarten sure; but then the herrings themselves catch the sand-eels, and the cod catch the herring, and the porpoises and grampuses catch the cod."

      Ewan did his best to look astonished.

      "Aw, that's the truth, sir. It's terrible, wonderful strange, but I suppose it's all nathur. You see, sir, we do the same ourselves."

      "How do you mean, Davy? We don't eat each other, I hope," said the young parson.

      "Och, don't we, though? Lave us alone for that."

      Ewan tried to look appalled.

      "Well, of coorse, not to say ate, not 'xactly ate; but the biggest chap allis rigs the rest; and the next biggest chap allis rigs a littler one, you know, and the littlest chap, he gets rigged by everybody all round, doesn't he, sir?"

      Davy had got a grip of the knotty problem, but the lad's poor, simple face looked sadly burdened, and he came back to his old word.

      "Seems to me it must be all nathur, sir."

      Ewan began to feel some touch of shame at playing with this simple, earnest, big little heart. "So you think it all nature, Davy?" he said, with a lump gathering in his throat.

      "Well, well, I do, you know, sir; it does make a fellow fit to cry a bit, somehow; but it must be nathur, sir."

      And Davy took off his blue worsted cap and fumbled it and gave his troubled young head a grave shake.

      Then there was some general talk about Davy's early history. Davy's father had been pressed into the army before Davy was born, and had afterward been no more heard of; then his mother had died, and Billy Quilleash, being his mother's elder brother, had brought him up. Davy had always sailed as boy with Uncle Billy, he was sailing as boy then, and that was to the end that Uncle Billy might draw his share, but the young master (Mastha Dan) had spoken up for him, so he had, and he knew middlin' well what that would come to. "'He's a tidy lump of a lad now,' says Mastha Dan, 'and he's well used of the boats, too,' says he, 'and if he does well this time,' he says, 'he must sail man for himself next season.' Aw, yes, sir, that was what Mastha Dan said."

      It was clear that Dan was the boy's hero. When Dan was mentioned that lagging lip gave a yearning look to Davy's simple face. Dan's doubtful exploits and his dubious triumphs all looked glorious in Davy's eyes. Davy had watched Dan, and listened to him, and though Dan might know nothing of his silent worship, every word that Dan had spoken to him had been hoarded up in the lad's heart like treasure. Davy had the dog's soul, and Dan was his master.

      "Uncle Billy and him's same as brothers," said Davy; "and Uncle Billy's uncommon proud of the young master, and middlin' jealous, too. Aw, well! who's wondering at it?"

      Just then Crennel, the cook, came up to say that breakfast was ready, and Ewan and Davy went below, the young parson's hand resting on the boy's shoulder. In the cabin Dan was sitting by the stove, laughing immoderately. Ewan saw at a glance that Dan had been drinking, and he forthwith elbowed his way to Dan's side and lifted a brandy bottle from the stove-top into the locker, under pretense of finding a place for his hat. Then all hands sat down to the table. There was a huge dish of potatoes boiled in their jackets, and a similar dish of herrings. Every man dipped into the dishes with his hands, lifted his herring on to his plate, ran his fingers from tail to head, swept all the flesh off the fresh fish, and threw the bare backbone into the crock that stood behind.

      "Keep a corner for the Meailley at the 'Three Legs,'" said Dan.

      There was to be a herring breakfast that morning at the "Three Legs of Man," to celebrate the opening of the fishing season.

      "You'll come, Ewan, eh?"

      The young parson shook his head.

      Dan was in great spirits, to which the spirits he had imbibed contributed a more than common share. Ewan saw the too familiar light of dangerous mischief dancing in Dan's eyes, and made twenty attempts to keep the conversation within ordinary bounds of seriousness. But Dan was not to be restrained, and breaking away into the homespun – a sure indication that the old Adam was having the upper hand – he forthwith plunged into some chaff that was started by the mate, Ned Teare, at Davy Fayle's expense.

      "Aw, ye wouldn't think it's true, would ye, now?" said Ned, with a wink at Dan and a "glime" at Davy.

      "And what's that?" said Dan, with another "glime" at the lad.

      "Why, that the like o' yander is tackin' round the gels."

      "D'ye raely mane it?" said Dan, dropping his herring and lifting his eyes.

      Ewan coughed with some volume, and said, "There, there, Dan – there, there."

      "Yes, though, and sniffin' and snuffin' abaft of them astonishin'," Ned Teare put it again.

      "Aw, well, well, well," said Dan, turning up afresh the whites of his eyes.

      There was not a sign from Davy; he broke his potato more carefully, and took both hands and both eyes to strip away its jacket.

      "Yes, yes, the craythur's doing somethin' in the spooney line," said Billy Quilleash; "him as hasn't the hayseed out of his hair yet."

      "Aw, well," said Dan, pretending to come to Davy's relief, "it isn't raisonable but the lad should be coortin' some gel now."

      "What's that?" shouted Quilleash, dropping the banter rather suddenly. "What, and not a farthing at him? And owin' me fortune for the bringin' up."

      "No matter, Billy," said Dan, "and don't ride a man down like a main-tack. One of these fine mornings Davy will be payin' his debt to you with the foretopsail."

      Davy's eyes were held very low, but it was not hard to see that they were beginning to fill.

      "That will do, Dan, that will do," said Ewan. The young parson's face had grown suddenly pale, but Dan saw nothing of that.

      "And look at him there," said Dan, reaching round Ewan to prod Davy in the ribs – "look at him there, pretendin' he never knows nothin'."

      The big tears were near to toppling out of Davy's eyes. He could have borne the chaff from any one but Dan.

      "Dan," said Ewan, with a constrained quietness, "stop it; I can't stand it much longer."

      At that Davy got up from the table, leaving his unfinished breakfast, and began to climb the hatchways.

      "Aw, now, look at that," said Dan, with affected solemnity, and so saying, and not heeding the change in Ewan's manner, Dan got up too and followed Davy out, put an arm round the lad's waist, and tried to draw him back. "Don't mind the loblolly-boys, Davy veg," he said, coaxingly. Davy pushed him away with an angry word.

      "What's that he's after saying?" asked Quilleash.

      "Nothin'; he only cussed a bit," said Dan.

      "Cussed, did he? He'd better show a leg if he don't want the rat's tail."

      Then Ewan rose from the table, and his eyes flashed and his pale face quivered.

      "I'll tell you what it is," he said in a tense, tremulous voice, "there's not a man among you. You're a lot of skulking cowards."

      At that he was making for the deck; but Dan, whose face, full of the fire of the liquor he had taken, grew in one moment old and ugly, leaped to his feet in a tempest of wrath, overturned his stool, and rushed at Ewan with eyes aflame and uplifted hand, and suddenly, instantly, like a flash, his fist fell, and Ewan rolled on the floor.

      Then