Rudyard Kipling : The Complete Novels and Stories. Редьярд Джозеф Киплинг

      ‘No harm. No. But one day he will be your master, Danny.’

      ‘That all?’ said Dan placidly. ‘He wun’t—not by a jugful.’

      ‘Master!’ said the cook, pointing to Harvey. ‘Man!’ and he pointed to Dan.

      ‘That’s news. Haow soon?’ said Dan with a laugh.

      ‘In some years, and I shall see it. Master and man—man and master.’

      ‘How in thunder d’ye work that out?’ said Tom Platt.

      ‘In my head, where I can see.’

      ‘Haow?’ This from all the others at once.

      ‘I do not know, but so it will be.’ He dropped his head and went on peeling the potatoes, and not another word could they get out of him.

      ‘Well,’ said Dan, ‘a heap o’ things’ll hev to come abaout ’fore Harve’s any master o’ mine; but I’m glad the doctor ain’t choosen to mark him for a Jonah. Now, I mistrust Uncle Salters fer the Jonerest Jonah in the fleet regardin’ his own special luck. Dunno ef it’s spreadin’ same’s smallpox. He ought to be on the Carrie Pitman. That boat’s her own Jonah, sure—crews an’ gear make no differ to her driftin’. Jiminy Christmas! She’ll etch loose in a flat ca’am.’

      ‘We’re well clear o’ the fleet, anyway,’ said Disko. ‘Carrie Pitman an’ all.’ There was a rapping on the deck.

      ‘Uncle Salters has catched his luck,’ said Dan, as his father departed.

      ‘It’s blowed clear,’ Disko cried, and all the foc’sle tumbled up for a bit of fresh air. The fog had gone, but a sullen sea ran in great rollers behind it. The We’re Here slid, as it were, into long, sunk avenues and ditches which felt quite sheltered and homelike if they would only stay still; but they changed without rest or mercy, and flung up the schooner to crown one peak of a thousand gray hills, while the wind hooted through her rigging as she zigzagged down the slopes. Far away a sea would burst in a sheet of foam, and the others would follow suit as at a signal, till Harvey’s eyes swam with the vision of interlacing whites and grays. Four or five Mother Carey’s chickens stormed round in circles, shrieking as they swept past the bows. A rain-squall or two strayed aimlessly over the hopeless waste, ran down wind and back again, and melted away.

      ‘Seems to me I saw somethin’ flicker jest naow over yonder,’ said Uncle Salters, pointing to the north-east.

      ‘Can’t be any of the fleet,’ said Disko, peering under his eyebrows, a hand on the foc’sle gangway as the solid bows hatcheted into the troughs. ‘Sea’s oilin’ over dretful fast. Danny, don’t you want to skip up a piece an’ see how aour trawl-buoy lays?’

      Danny, in his big boots, trotted rather than climbed up the main rigging (this consumed Harvey with envy), hitched himself around the reeling crosstrees, and let his eye rove till it caught the tiny black buoy-flag on the shoulder of a mile-away swell.

      ‘She’s all right,’ he hailed. ‘Sail O! Dead to the no’th’ard, comin’ down like smoke! Schooner she be, too.’

      They waited yet another half-hour, the sky clearing in patches, with a flicker of sickly sun from time to time, that made patches of olive-green water. Then a stump-foremast lifted, ducked, and disappeared, to be followed on the next wave by a high stern with old-fashioned wooden snail’s-horn davits. The sails were red tanned.

      ‘Frenchman!’ shouted Dan. ‘No, ’tain’t neither. Da-ad!’

      ‘That’s no French,’ said Disko. ‘Salters, your blame luck holds tighter’n a screw in a keg-head.’

      ‘I’ve eyes. It’s Uncle Abishai.’

      ‘You can’t nowise tell fer sure.’

      ‘The head-king of all Jonahs,’ groaned Tom Platt. ‘Oh, Salters, Salters, why wasn’t you abed an’ asleep?’

      ‘How could I tell?’ said poor Salters, as the schooner swung up.

      She might have been the very Flying Dutchman, so foul, draggled, and unkempt was every rope and stick aboard. Her old-style quarter-deck was some four or five feet high, and her rigging flew knotted and tangled like weed at a wharf-end. She was running before the wind—yawing frightfully—her staysail let down to act as a sort of extra foresail,—‘scandalised,’ they call it,—and her foreboom guyed out over the side. Her bowsprit cocked up like an old-fashioned frigate’s; her jib-boom had been fished and spliced and nailed and clamped beyond further repair; and as she hove herself forward, and sat down on her broad tail, she looked for all the world like a blouzy, frouzy, bad old woman sneering at a decent girl.

      ‘That’s Abishai,’ said Salters. ‘Full o’ gin an’ Judique men, an’ the judgments o’ Providence layin’ fer him an’ never takin’ good holt. He’s run in to bait, Miquelon way.’

      ‘He’ll run her under,’ said Long Jack. ‘That’s no rig fer this weather.’

      ‘Not he, ’r he’d ’a done it long ago,’ Disko replied. ‘Looks ’s if he cal’lated to run us under. Ain’t she daown by the head more’n natural, Tom Platt?’

      ‘Ef it’s his style o’ loadin’ her she ain’t safe,’ said the sailor slowly. ‘Ef she’s spewed her oakum he’d better git to his pumps mighty quick.’

      The creature threshed up, wore round with a clatter and rattle, and lay head to wind within earshot.

      A gray-beard wagged over the bulwark, and a thick voice yelled something Harvey could not understand. But Disko’s face darkened. ‘He’d resk every stick he hez to carry bad news. Says we’re in fer a shift o’ wind. He’s in fer worse. Abishai! Abishai!’ He waved his arm up and down with the gesture of a man at the pumps, and pointed forward. The crew mocked him and laughed.

      ‘Jounce ye, an’ strip ye, an’ trip ye!’ yelled Uncle Abishai. ‘A livin’ gale—a livin’ gale. Yah! Cast up fer your last trip, all you Gloucester haddocks. You won’t see Gloucester no more, no more!’

      ‘Crazy full—as usual,’ said Tom Platt. ‘Wish he hadn’t spied us, though.’

      She drifted out of hearing while the gray-head yelled something about a dance at the Bay of Bulls and a dead man in the foc’sle. Harvey shuddered. He had seen the sloven tilled decks and the savage-eyed crew.

      ‘An’ that’s a fine little floatin’ hell fer her draught,’ said Long Jack. ‘I wondher what mischief he’s been at ashore.’

      ‘He’s a trawler,’ Dan explained to Harvey, ‘an’ he runs in fer bait all along the coast. Oh no, not home, he don’t go. He deals along the south an’ east shore up yonder.’ He nodded in the direction of the pitiless Newfoundland beaches. ‘Dad won’t never take me ashore there. They’re a mighty tough crowd—an’ Abishai’s the toughest. You saw his boat? Well, she’s nigh seventy year old, they say; the last o’ the old Marblehead heel-tappers. They don’t make them quarter-decks any more. Abishai don’t use Marblehead, though. He ain’t wanted there. He jes’ drif’s araound, in debt, trawlin’ an’ cussin’ like you’ve heard. Bin a Jonah fer years an’ years, he hez. Gits liquor frum the Feecamp boats fer makin’ spells an’ selling winds an’ such truck. Crazy, I guess.’

      ‘’Twon’t be any use underrunnin’ the trawl to-night,’ said Tom Platt, with quiet despair. ‘He come alongside special to cuss us. I’d give my wage an’ share to see him at the gangway o’ the old Ohio ’fore we quit floggin’. Jest abaout six dozen, an’ Sam Mocatta layin’ ’em on criss-cross!’

      The dishevelled ‘heel-tapper’ danced drunkenly down wind, and all eyes followed her. Suddenly the cook cried in his phonograph voice: ‘It wass his own death made