Every Man for Himself
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“Not at the price.”
“I ’low, then, sir,” said Jehoshaphat, in some impatience, “that you might as well be comfortable while you makes up your mind. Here!” He cast a square of tarpaulin on the ice, and chancing to discover Timothy Yule’s jacket, he added that. “There!” he grunted, with satisfaction; “you’ll be sittin’ soft an’ dry while you does your thinkin’. Don’t be long, sir – not overlong. Please don’t, sir,” he begged; “for it looks t’ me – it looks wonderful t’ me – like a spurt o’ weather.”
John Wull spread the tarpaulin.
“An’ when you gets through considerin’ of the question,” said Jehoshaphat, suggestively, “an’ is come t’ my way o’ thinkin’, why all you got t’ do is lift your little finger, an’ I’ll put you ashore” – a gust of wind whipped past – “if I’m able,” Jehoshaphat added.
Pan and boat drifted out from the coast, a slow course, which in an hour had reduced the harbor folk to black pygmies on the low rocks to windward. Jehoshaphat paddled patiently in the wake of the ice. Often he raised his head, in apprehension, to read the signs in the west; and he sighed a deal, and sometimes muttered to himself. Old John Wull was squatted on the tarpaulin, with Timothy Yule’s jacket for a cushion, his great-coat wrapped close about him, his cap pulled over his ears, his arms folded. The withered old fellow was as lean and blue and rigid and staring as a frozen corpse.
The wind had freshened. The look and smell of the world foreboded a gale. Overhead the sky turned gray. There came a shadow on the sea, sullen and ominous. Gusts of wind ran offshore and went hissing out to sea; and they left the waters rippling black and flecked with froth wherever they touched. In the west the sky, far away, changed from gray to deepest black and purple; and high up, midway, masses of cloud, with torn and streaming edges, rose swiftly toward the zenith. It turned cold. A great flake of snow fell on Jehoshaphat’s cheek, and melted; but Jehoshaphat was pondering upon justice. He wiped the drop of water away with the back of his hand, because it tickled him, but gave the sign no heed.
“I ’low, Mister Wull,” said he, doggedly, “that you better give Timothy Yule back his father’s meadow. For nobody knows, sir,” he argued, “why Timothy Yule’s father went an’ signed his name t’ that there writin’ just afore he died. ’Twasn’t right. He didn’t ought t’ sign it. An’ you got t’ give the meadow back.”
John Wull was unmoved.
“An’, look you! Mister Wull,” Jehoshaphat continued, pulling closer to the pan, addressing the bowed back of the trader, “you better not press young Isaac Lower for that cod-trap money. He’ve too much trouble with that wife o’ his t’ be bothered by debt. Anyhow, you ought t’ give un a chance. An’, look you! you better let ol’ Misses Jowl have back her garden t’ Green Cove. The way you got that, Mister Wull, is queer. I don’t know, but I ’low you better give it back, anyhow. You got to, Mister Wull; an’, ecod! you got t’ give the ol’ woman a pound o’ cheese an’ five cents’ worth – no, ten – ten cents’ worth o’ sweets t’ make her feel good. She likes cheese. She ’lows she never could get enough o’ cheese. She ’lows she wished she could have her fill afore she dies. An’ you got t’ give her a whole pound for herself.”
They were drifting over the Tombstone grounds.
“Whenever you makes up your mind,” Jehoshaphat suggested, diffidently, “you lift your little finger – jus’ your little finger.”
There was no response.
“Your little finger,” Jehoshaphat repeated. “Jus’ your little finger – on’y that.”
Wull faced about. “Jehoshaphat,” said he, with a grin, “you wouldn’t leave me.”
“Jus’ wouldn’t I!”
“You wouldn’t.”
“You jus’ wait and see.”
“You wouldn’t leave me,” said Wull, “because you couldn’t. I knows you, Jehoshaphat – I knows you.”
“You better look out.”
“Come, now, Jehoshaphat, is you goin’ t’ leave an old man drift out t’ sea an’ die?”
Jehoshaphat was embarrassed.
“Eh, Jehoshaphat?”
“Well, no,” Jehoshaphat admitted, frankly. “I isn’t; leastways, not alone.”
“Not alone?” anxiously.
“No; not alone. I’ll go with you, Mister Wull, if you’re lonesome, an’ wants company. You sees, sir, I can’t give in. I jus’ can’t! I’m here, Mister Wull, in this here cranky rodney, beyond the Tombstone grounds, with a dirty gale from a point or two south o’ west about t’ break, because I’m the public o’ Satan’s Trap. I can die, sir, t’ save gossip; but I sim-plee jus’ isn’t able t’ give in. ’Twouldn’t be right.”
“Well, I won’t give in.”
“Nor I, sir. So here we is – out here beyond the Tombstone grounds, you on a pan an’ me in a rodney. An’ the weather isn’t – well – not quite kind.”
It was not. The black clouds, torn, streaming, had possessed the sky, and the night was near come. Haul-Away Head and Daddy Tool’s Point had melted with the black line of coast. Return – safe passage through the narrows to the quiet water and warm lights of Satan’s Trap – was almost beyond the most courageous hope. The wind broke from the shore in straight lines – a stout, agile wind, loosed for riot upon the sea. The sea was black, with a wind-lop upon the grave swell – a black-and-white sea, with spume in the gray air. The west was black, with no hint of other color – without the pity of purple or red. Roundabout the sea was breaking, troubled by the wind, indifferent to the white little rodney and the lives o’ men.
“You better give in,” old John Wull warned.
“No,” Jehoshaphat answered; “no; oh no! I won’t give in. Not in.”
A gust turned the black sea white.
“You better give in,” said Jehoshaphat.
John Wull shrugged his shoulders and turned his back.
“Now, Mister Wull,” said Jehoshaphat, firmly, “I ’low I can’t stand this much longer. I ’low we can’t be fools much longer an’ get back t’ Satan’s Trap. I got a sail, here, Mister Wull; but, ecod! the beat t’ harbor isn’t pleasant t’ think about.”
“You better go home,” sneered old John Wull.
“I ’low I will,” Jehoshaphat declared.
Old John Wull came to the windward edge of the ice, and there stood frowning, with his feet submerged. “What was you sayin’?” he asked. “That you’d go home?”
Jehoshaphat looked away.
“An’ leave me?” demanded John Wull. “Leave me? Me?”
“I got t’ think o’ my kids.”
“An’ you’d leave me t’ die?”
“Well,” Jehoshaphat complained, “’tis long past supper-time. You better give in.”
“I won’t!”
The coast was hard to distinguish from the black sky in the west. It began to snow. Snow and night, allied, would bring Jehoshaphat Rudd and old John Wull to cold death.
“Mister Wull,” Jehoshaphat objected, “’tis long past supper-time, an’ I wants t’ go home.”
“Go – an’ be damned!”
“I’ll count ten,” Jehoshaphat threatened.
“You dassn’t!”
“I don’t know whether I’ll go or not,” said Jehoshaphat. “Maybe not. Anyhow, I’ll count ten, an’ see what happens. Is you ready?”
Wull sat down on the tarpaulin.
“One,” Jehoshaphat began.
John Wull seemed not to hear.
“Two,” said Jehoshaphat. “Three – four – five – six – seven.”
John Wull did not turn.
“Eight.”
There was no sign of relenting.
“Nine.”
Jehoshaphat paused. “God’s mercy!” he groaned, “don’t you be a fool, Mister Wull,” he pleaded. “Doesn’t you know what the weather is?”
A wave – the lop raised by the wind – broke over the pan. John Wull stood up. There came a shower of snow.
“Eh?” Jehoshaphat demanded, in agony.
“I won’t give in,” said old John Wull.
“Then I got t’ say ten. I jus’ got to.”
“I dare you.”
“I will, Mister Wull. Honest, I will! I’ll say ten an you don’t look out.”
“Why don’t you do it?”
“In a minute, Mister Wull. I’ll say it just so soon as I get up the sail. I will, Mister Wull, honest t’ God!”
The coast had vanished.
“Look,” cried Jehoshaphat, “we’re doomed men!”
The squall, then first observed, sent the sea curling over the ice. Jehoshaphat’s rodney shipped the water it raised. Snow came in a blinding cloud.
“Say ten, you fool!” screamed old John Wull.
“Ten!”
John Wull came to the edge of the pan. ’Twas hard for the old man to breast the gust. He put his hands to his mouth that he might be heard in the wind.
“I give in!” he shouted.
Jehoshaphat managed to save the lives of both.
Old John Wull, with his lean feet in a tub of hot water, with a gray blanket over his shoulders, with a fire sputtering in the stove, with his housekeeper hovering near – old John Wull chuckled. The room was warm and his stomach was full, and the wind, blowing horribly in the night, could work him no harm. There he sat, sipping herb tea to please his housekeeper, drinking whiskey to please himself. He had no chill, no fever, no pain; perceived no warning of illness. So he chuckled away. It was all for the best. There would now surely be peace at Satan’s Trap. Had he not yielded? What more could they ask? They would be content with this victory. For a long, long time they would not complain. He had yielded; very well: Timothy Yule should have his father’s meadow, Dame Jowl her garden and sweets and cheese, the young Lower be left in possession of the cod-trap, and there would be no law. Very well; the folk would neither pry nor complain for a long, long time: that was triumph enough for John Wull. So he chuckled away, with his feet in hot water, and a gray blanket about him, bald and withered and ghastly, but still feeling the comfort of fire and hot water and whiskey, the pride of power.
And within three years John Wull possessed again all that he had yielded, and the world of Satan’s Trap wagged on as in the days before the revolution.
X – THE SURPLUS
To the east was the illimitable ocean, laid thick with moonlight and luminous mist; to the west, beyond a stretch of black, slow heaving water, was the low line of Newfoundland, an illusion of kindliness, the malignant character of its jagged rock and barren interior transformed by the gentle magic of the night. Tumm, the clerk, had the wheel of the schooner, and had been staring in a rapture at the stars.
“Jus’ readin’, sir,” he explained.
I wondered what he read.
“Oh,” he answered, turning again to contemplate the starlit sky, “jus’ a little psa’m from my Bible.”
I left him to read on, myself engaged with a perusal of the serene and comforting text-book of philosophy spread overhead. The night was favorably inclined and radiant: a soft southerly wind blowing without menace, a sky of infinite depth and tender shadow, the sea asleep under the moon. With a gentle, aimlessly wandering wind astern – an idle, dawdling, contemptuous breeze, following the old craft lazily, now and again whipping her nose under water to remind her of suspended strength – the trader Good Samaritan ran on, wing and wing, through the moonlight, bound across from Sinners’ Tickle to Afterward Bight, there to deal for the first of the catch.
“Them little stars jus’ will wink!” Tumm complained.
I saw them wink in despite.
“Ecod!” Tumm growled.
The amusement of the stars was not by this altered to a more serious regard: everywhere they winked.
“I’ve seed un peep through a gale o’ wind, a slit in the black sky, a cruel, cold time,” Tumm continued, a pretence of indignation in his voice, “when ’twas a mean hard matter t’ keep a schooner afloat in a dirty sea, with all hands wore out along o’ labor an’ the fear o’ death an’ hell; an’, ecod! them little cusses was winkin’ still. Eh? What d’ye make o’ that? – winkin’ still, the heartless little cusses!”
There were other crises, I recalled – knowing little enough of the labor of the sea – upon which they winked.
“Ay,” Tumm agreed; “they winks when lovers kiss on the roads; an’ they winks jus’ the same,” he added, softly, “when a heart breaks.”
“They’re humorous little beggars,” I observed.
Tumm laughed. “They been lookin’ at this here damned thing so long,” he drawled – meaning, no doubt, upon the spectacle of the world – “that no wonder they winks!”
This prefaced a tale.
“Somehow,” Tumm began, his voice fallen rather despondent, I fancied, but yet continuing most curiously genial, “it always made me think o’ dust an’ ashes t’ clap eyes on ol’ Bill Hulk o’ Gingerbread Cove. Ay, b’y; but I could jus’ fair hear the parson singsong that mean truth o’ life: ‘Dust t’ dust; ashes t’ ashes’ – an’ make the best of it, ye sinners an’ young folk! When ol’ Bill hove alongside, poor man! I’d think no more o’ maids an’ trade, o’ which I’m fair sinful fond, but on’y o’ coffins an’ graves an’ ground. For, look you! the ol’ feller was so white an’ wheezy – so fishy-eyed an’ crooked an’ shaky along o’ age. ’Tis a queer thing, sir, but, truth o’ God, so old was Bill Hulk that when he’d board me I’d remember somehow the warm breast o’ my mother, an’ then think, an’ couldn’t help it, o’ the bosom o’ dust where my head must lie.”
Tumm paused.
“Seemed t’ me, somehow,” he continued, “when the Quick as Wink was lyin’ of a Sunday t’ Gingerbread Cove – seemed t’ me somehow, when I’d hear the church bell ring an’ echo across the water an’ far into the hills – when I’d cotch sight o’ ol’ Bill Hulk, with his staff an’ braw black coat, crawlin’ down the hill t’ meetin’ – ay, an’ when the sun was out, warm an’ yellow, an’ the maids an’ lads was flirtin’ over the roads t’ hear the parson thunder agin their hellish levity – seemed t’ me then, somehow, that ol’ Bill was all the time jus’ dodgin’ along among open graves; for, look you! the ol’ feller had such trouble with his legs. An’ I’d wish by times that he’d stumble an’ fall in, an’ be covered up in a comfortable an’ decent sort o’ fashion, an’ stowed away for good an’ all in the bed where he belonged.
“‘Uncle Bill,’ says I, ‘you at it yet?’
“‘Hangin’ on, Tumm,’ says he. ‘I isn’t quite through.’
“‘Accordin’ t’ the signs,’ says I, ‘you isn’t got much of a grip left.’
“‘Yes, I is!’ says he. ‘I got all my fishin’ fingers exceptin’ two, an’ I ’low they’ll last me till I’m through.’
“Ecod! sir, but it made me think so mean o’ the world that I ’lowed I’d look away.
“‘No, Tumm,’ says he, ‘I isn’t quite through.’
“‘Well,’ says I, ‘you must be tired.’
“‘Tired,’ says he. ‘Oh no, b’y! Tired? Not me! I got a little spurt o’ labor t’ do afore I goes.’
“‘An’ what’s that, Uncle Bill?’ says I.
“‘Nothin’ much,’ says he.
“‘But what is it?’
“‘Nothin’ much,’ says he; ‘jus’ a little spurt o’ labor.’
“The ol’ feller lived all alone, under Seven Stars Head, in a bit of a white house with black trimmin’s, jus’ within the Tickle, where ’twas nice an’ warm an’ still; an’ he kep’ his house as neat an’ white as a ol’ maid with a gray tomcat an’ a window-garden o’ geraniums, an’, like all the ol’ maids, made the best fish on fifty mile o’ coast. ’Twas said by the ol’ folks o’ Gingerbread Cove that their fathers knowed the time when Bill Hulk had a partner; but the partner got lost on the Labrador, an’ then Bill Hulk jus’ held on cotchin’ fish an’ keepin’ house all alone, till he got the habit an’ couldn’t leave off. Was a time, I’m told, a time when he had his strength – was a time, I’m told, afore he wore out – was a time when Bill Hulk had a bit o’ money stowed away in a bank t’ St. John’s. Always ’lowed, I’m told, that ’twas plenty t’ see un through when he got past his labor. ‘I got enough put by,’ says he. ‘I got more’n enough. I’m jus’ fishin’ along,’ says he, ‘t’ give t’ the poor. Store in your youth,’ says he, ‘an’ you’ll not want in your age.’ But somehow some o’ them St. John’s gentlemen managed t’ discover expensive ways o’ delightin’ theirselves; an’ what with bank failures an’ lean seasons an’ lumbago, ol’ Bill was fallen poor when first I traded Gingerbread Cove. About nine year after that, bein’ then used t’ the trade o’ that shore, I ’lowed that Bill had better knock off an’ lie in the sun till ’twas time for un t’ go t’ his last berth. ‘’Twon’t be long,’ thinks I, ’an’ I ’low my owners can stand it. Anyhow,’ thinks I, ‘’tis high time the world done something for Bill.’
“But —
“‘Tumm,’ says he, ‘how many books is kep’ by traders in Newf’un’land?’
“I ’lowed I didn’t know.
“‘Call it a round million,’ says he.
“‘What of it?’ says I.
“‘Nothin’ much,’ says he.
“‘But what of it?’ says I.
“‘Well,’ says he, ‘if you was t’ look them million books over, goin’ as easy as you please an’ markin’ off every line o’ every page with your forefinger, what d’ye think would come t’ pass?’
“I ’lowed I couldn’t tell.
“‘Eh?’ says he. ‘Come, now! give a guess.’
“‘I don’t know, Bill,’ says I.
“‘Why, Tumm,’ says he, ‘you wouldn’t find a copper agin the name o’ ol’ Bill Hulk!’
“‘That’s good livin’,’ says I.
“‘Not a copper!’ says he. ‘No, sir; not if you looked with spectacles. An’ so,’ says he, ‘I ’low I’ll jus’ keep on payin’ my passage for the little time that’s left. If my back on’y holds out,’ says he, ‘I’ll manage it till I’m through. ’Twon’t be any more than twenty year. Jus’ a little spurt o’ labor t’ do, Tumm,’ says he, ‘afore I goes.’
“‘More labor, Uncle Bill?’ says I. ‘God’s sake!’
“‘Nothin’ much,’ says he; ‘jus’ a little spurt afore I goes in peace.’
“Ah, well! he’d labored long enough, lived long enough, t’ leave other hands clean up the litter an’ sweep the room o’ his life. I didn’t know what that little spurt o’ labor was meant t’ win for his peace o’ mind – didn’t know what he’d left undone – didn’t know what his wish or his conscience urged un t’ labor for. I jus’ wanted un t’ quit an’ lie down in the sun. ‘For,’ thinks I, ‘the world looks wonderful greedy an’ harsh t’ me when I hears ol’ Bill Hulk’s bones rattle over the roads or come squeakin’ through the Tickle in his punt. ‘Leave un go in peace!’ thinks I. ‘I isn’t got no love for a world that sends them bones t’ sea in an easterly wind. Ecod!’ thinks I; ‘but he’ve earned quiet passage by jus’ livin’ t’ that ghastly age – jus’ by hangin’ on off a lee shore in the mean gales o’ life.’ Seemed t’ me, too, no matter how Bill felt about it, that he might be obligin’ an’ quit afore he was through. Seemed t’ me he might jus’ stop where he was an’ leave the friends an’ neighbors finish up. ’Tisn’t fair t’ ask a man t’ have his labor done in a ship-shape way – t’ be through with the splittin’ an’ all cleaned up – when the Skipper sings out, ‘Knock off, ye dunderhead!’ Seems t’ me a man might leave the crew t’ wash the table an’ swab the deck an’ throw the livers in the cask.
“‘You be obligin’, Bill,’ says I, ‘an’ quit.’
“‘Isn’t able,’ says he, ’till I’m through.’
“So the bones o’ ol’ Bill Hulk rattled an’ squeaked right on till it made me fair ache when I thunk o’ Gingerbread Cove.
“About four year after that I made the Cove in the spring o’ the year with supplies. ‘Well,’ thinks I, ‘they won’t be no Bill Hulk this season. With that pain in his back an’ starboard leg, this winter have finished he; an’ I’ll lay a deal on that.’ ’Twas afore dawn when we dropped anchor, an’ a dirty dawn, too, with fog an’ rain, the wind sharp, an’ the harbor in a tumble for small craft; but the first man over the side was ol’ Bill Hulk.
“‘It can’t be you, Uncle Bill!’ says I.
“‘Tumm,’ says he, ‘I isn’t quite through – yet.’
“‘You isn’t goin’ at it this season, is you?’
“‘Ay,’ says he; ‘goin’ at it again, Tumm.’
“‘What for?’ says I.
“‘Nothin’ much,’ says he.
“‘But what for?’
“‘Well,’ says he, ‘I’m savin’ up.’
“‘Savin’ up?’ says I. ‘Shame to you! What you savin’ up for?’
“‘Oh,’ says he, ‘jus’ savin’ up.’
“‘But what for?’ says I. ‘What’s the sense of it?’
“‘Bit o’ prope’ty,’ says he. ‘I’m thinkin’ o’ makin’ a small investment.’
“‘At your age, Uncle Bill!’ says I. ‘An’ a childless man!’
“‘Jus’ a small piece,’ says he. ‘Nothin’ much, Tumm.’
“‘But it won’t do you no good,’ says I.
“‘Well, Tumm,’ says he, ‘I’m sort o’ wantin’ it, an’ I ’low she won’t go t’ waste. I been fishin’ from Gingerbread Cove for three hundred year,’ says he, ‘an’ when I knocks off I wants t’ have things ship-shape. Isn’t no comfort, Tumm,’ says he, ‘in knockin’ off no other way.’
“Three hundred year he ’lowed he’d fished from that there harbor, a hook-an’-line man through it all; an’ as they wasn’t none o’ us abroad on the coast when he come in, he’d stick to it, spite o’ parsons. They was a mean little red-headed parson came near churchin’ un for the whopper; but Bill Hulk wouldn’t repent. ‘You isn’t been here long enough t’ know, parson,’ says he. ‘’Tis goin’ on three hundred year, I tells you! I’ll haul into my fourth hundred,’ says he, ‘come forty-three year from Friday fortnight.’ Anyhow, he’d been castin’ lines on the Gingerbread grounds quite long enough. ’Twas like t’ make a man’s back ache – t’ make his head spin an’ his stomach shudder – jus’ t’ think o’ the years o’ labor an’ hardship Bill Hulk had weathered. Seemed t’ me the very stars must o’ got fair disgusted t’ watch un put out through the Tickle afore dawn an’ pull in after dark.
“‘Lord!’ says they. ‘If there ain’t Bill Hulk puttin’ out again! Won’t nothin’ ever happen t’ he?’”
I thought it an unkind imputation.
“Well,” Tumm explained, “the little beggars is used t’ change; an’ I wouldn’t wonder if they was bored a bit by ol’ Bill Hulk.”
It might have been.
“Four or five year after that,” Tumm proceeded, “the tail of a sou’east gale slapped me into Gingerbread Cove, an’ I ’lowed t’ hang the ol’ girl up till the weather turned civil. Thinks I, ‘’Tis wonderful dark an’ wet, but ’tis also wonderful early, an’ I’ll jus’ take a run ashore t’ yarn an’ darn along o’ ol’ Bill Hulk.’ So I put a bottle in my pocket t’ warm the ol’ ghost’s marrow, an’ put out for Seven Stars Head in the rodney. ’Twas mean pullin’ agin the wind, but I fetched the stage-head ’t last, an’ went crawlin’ up the hill. Thinks I, ‘They’s no sense in knockin’ in a gale o’ wind like this, for Bill Hulk’s so wonderful hard o’ hearin’ in a sou’east blow.’
“So I drove on in.
“‘Lord’s sake, Bill!’ says I, ‘what you up to?’
“‘Nothin’ much, Tumm,’ says he.
“‘It don’t look right,’ says I. ‘What is it?’
“‘Nothin’ much,’ says he; ‘jus’ countin’ up my money.’
“’Twas true enough: there he sot – playin’ with his fortune. They was pounds of it: coppers an’ big round pennies an’ silver an’ one lone gold piece.
“‘You been gettin’ rich?’ says I.
“‘Tumm,’ says he, ‘you got any clear idea o’ how much hard cash they is lyin’ right there on that plain deal table in this here very kitchen you is in?’
“‘I isn’t,’ says I.
“‘Well,’ says he, ‘they’s as much as fourteen dollar! An’ what d’ye think o’ that?’
“I ’lowed I’d hold my tongue; so I jus’ lifted my eyebrow, an’ then sort o’ whistled, ‘Whew!’
“‘Fourteen,’ says he, ‘an’ more!’
“‘Whew!’ says I.
“‘An’, Tumm,’ says he, ‘I had twenty-four sixty once – about eighteen year ago.’
“‘You got a heap now,’ says I. ‘Fourteen dollar! Whew!’
“‘No, Tumm!’ cries he, all of a sudden. ‘No, no! I been lyin’ t’ you. I been lyin’!’ says he. ‘Lyin’!’
“‘I don’t care,’ says I; ‘you go right ahead an’ lie.’
“‘They isn’t fourteen dollar there,’ says he. ‘I jus’ been makin’ believe they was. See that there little pile o’ pennies t’ the nor’east? I been sittin’ here countin’ in them pennies twice. They isn’t fourteen dollar,’ says he; ‘they’s on’y thirteen eighty-four! But I wisht they was fourteen.’
“‘Never you mind,’ says I; ‘you’ll get that bit o’ prope’ty yet.’
“‘I got to,’ says he, ‘afore I goes.’
“‘Where does it lie?’ says I.
“‘Oh, ’tisn’t nothin’ much, Tumm,’ says he.
“‘But what is it?’
“‘Nothin’ much,’ says he; ‘jus’ a small piece.’
“‘Is it meadow?’ says I.
“‘No,’ says he; ‘tisn’t what you might call meadow an’ be right, though the grass grows there, in spots, knee high.’
“‘Is it a potato-patch?’
“‘No,’ says he; ‘nor yet a patch.’
“‘’Tisn’t a flower garden, is it?’ says I.
“‘N-no,’ says he; ‘you couldn’t rightly say so – though they grows there, in spots, quite free an’ nice.’