ther your purpose, God help me!'

* * * * *

"An' then the first adventure comin' down like a patch o' sunshine
over the sea! Ah-ha, the glory o' that time! Sixteen--an' as yet no
adventure beyond the waters of our parts! A nobbly time off Mad Mull
in a easterly wind--a night on the ice in the spring o' the year--a
wrecked punt in the tickle waters; but no big adventure--no right t'
swagger--none t' cock my cap--an' no great tale o' the north coast t'
tell the little lads o' Rickity Tickle on the hills of a Sunday
afternoon. But now, at last, I'd a berth with Davy Junk, a thing
beyond belief, an' I was bound out when the weather fell fair. An' out
we put, in the _Word o' the Lord_, in good time; an' Skipper
Davy--moved by fear of his fondness, no doubt--cuffed me from Rickity
Tickle t' the Straits, an' kicked me from the Barnyards t'
Thumb-an'-Finger o' Pinch-Me Head. 'I isn't able t' be partial, lad,'
says he, 't' them I'm fool enough t' be fond of.' Whatever had come to
un overnight at Rickity Tickle--an' however he'd learned t' peep in
new ways--there was no sign o' conversion on the cruise from Rickity
t' Pinch-Me. But 'twas some comfort t' be well in the lead o' the
fleet in the Straits, when a westerly gale blowed the ice off-shore,
an' it fair healed my bruises an' cured my dumps t' get the traps down
between the Thumb an' the Finger afore a sail showed up in the gray
weather t' s'uth'ard. Hard sailin', every inch o' the way down--blind
an' mad. Skipper Davy at the wheel: fog alongshore, ice in the fog,
reefs off the heads, an' a wind, by times, t' make the _Word o' the
Lord_ howl with the labor o' drivin' north.

"I didn't ease up on my prayers afore the anchor was down an' the
_Word o' the Lord_ got her rest in the lee o' Pinch-Me.

"'Feelin' better, Tumm?' says Skipper Davy.

"'I is.'

"'Don't you mind them few little kicks an' cuffs,' says he; 'they was
jus' meant t' harden you up.'

"'My duty,' says I.

"'I isn't very used t' bein' fond o' nobody,' says he, 'an' 'tis on my
conscience t' make a man o' your mother's son. An', moreover,' says
he, ''tis on my conscience t' teach you the worth of a dollar in
labor.'

"'My duty, Skipper Davy.'

"'Oh,' says he, 'you don't owe me nothin', I'm deep in debt t' you.'

"'Twas a harsh season for Labrador-men. Fish? Fish enough--but bitter
t' take from the seas off Pinch-Me. The wind was easterly, raw, wet,
an' foggy, blowin'