d_, which he skippered t' the
ice every spring o' the year.

"'So-so,' says he; 'jus' savin' along so-so.'

"'So-so!' says I; 'you're _rich_, Skipper Sammy.'

"'I'm not jus' in agreement with the plan o' the world as she's run,'
says he; 'but if I've a fortune t' ease my humor, I 'low the Lord gets
even, after all.'

"'How so?' says I.

"'If I'm blessed with a taste for savin', Tumm,' says he, 'I'm cursed
with a thirst for liquor.'

"'Twas true enough, I 'low. The handiwork o' God, in the matter o'
men's hearts, is by times beyond me t' fathom. For look you! a poor
devil will want This an' crave That when This an' That are spittin'
cat an' growlin' dog. They's small hope for a man's peace in a mess
like that. A lee shore, ecod!--breakers t' le'ward an' a brutal big
wind jumpin' down from the open sea. Thirst an' meanness never yet
kep' agreeable company. 'Tis a wonderful mess, ecod! when the Almighty
puts the love of a penny in a mean man's heart an' tunes his gullet t'
the appreciation o' good Jamaica rum. An' I never knowed a man t'
carry a more irksome burden of appetite than Small Sam Small o'
Whoopin' Harbor. 'Twas fair horrible t' see. Cursed with a taste for
savin', ay, an' cursed, too, with a thirst for good Jamaica rum! I've
seen his eyes glitter an' his tongue lick his lips at the sight of a
bottle; an' I've heared un groan, an' seed his face screw up, when he
pinched the pennies in his pocket an' turned away from the temptation
t' spend. It hurt un t' the backbone t' pull a cork; he squirmed when
his dram got past his Adam's apple. An', Lord! how the outport crews
would grin t' see un trickle little drops o' liquor into his belly--t'
watch un shift in his chair at the Anchor an' Chain, an' t' hear un
grunt an' sigh when the dram was down.

"But Small Sam Small was no toper. Half-seas-over jus' on'y once. It
cost un dear.

* * * * *

"I sailed along o' Cap'n Sammy," Tumm resumed, "on the swilin' v'yage
in the spring o' the Year o' the Westerly Gales. I mind it well: I've
cause. The _Royal Bloodhound_: a stout an' well-found craft. An' a
spry an' likely crew: Sam Small never lacked the pick o' the
swilin'-boys when it come t' fittin' out for the ice in the spring o'
the year. He'd get his load o' fat with the cleverest skippers of un
all; an' the wily skippers o' the fleet would tag the ol' rat through
the ice from Battle Harbor t' the Grand Banks. 'Small Sam Small,' s