Sure enough, old man Jowl came aboard the _Good Samaritan_ at Mad Tom’s Harbor to trade his fish—a lean, leathery old fellow in white moleskin, with skin boots, tied below the knees, and a cloth cap set decorously on a bushy head. The whole was as clean as a clothes-pin; and the punt was well kept, and the fish white and dry and sweet to smell, as all Newfoundland cod should be. Tumm’s prediction that he would not smile came true; his long countenance had no variation of expression—tough, brown, delicately wrinkled skin lying upon immobile flesh. His face was glum of cast—drawn at the brows, thin-lipped, still; but yet with an abundant and incongruously benignant white beard which might have adorned a prophet. For Jim Bull’s widow he made way; she, said he, must have his turn at the scales and in the cabin, for she had a baby to nurse, and was pressed for opportunity. This was tenderness beyond example—generous and acute. A clean, pious, gentle old fellow: he was all that, it may be; but he had eyes to disquiet the sanctified, who are not easily disturbed. They were not blue, but black with a blue film, like the eyes of an old wolf—cold, bold, patient, watchful—calculating; having no sympathy, but a large intent to profit, ultimately, whatever the cost. Tumm had bade me look Jowl in the eye; and to this day I have not forgotten.... * * * * * The _Good Samaritan_ was out of Mad Tom’s Harbor, bound across the bay, after dark, to trade the ports of the shore. It was a quiet night—starlit: the wind light and fair. The clerk and the skipper and I had the forecastle of the schooner to ourselves. “I ’low,” Tumm mused, “_I_ wouldn’t want t’ grow old.” The skipper grinned. “Not,” Tumm added, “on this coast.” “Ah, well, Tumm,” the skipper jeered, “maybe you won’t!” “I’d be ashamed,” said Tumm. “You dunderhead!” snapped the skipper, who was old, “on this coast an old man’s a man! He’ve lived through enough,” he growled, “t’ show it.” “’Tis accordin’,” said Tumm. “To what?” I asked. “T’ how you looks at it. In a mess, now—you take it in a nasty mess, when ’tis every man for hisself an’ the devil take the hindmost—in a mess like that, I ’low, the devil often gets the _man_ o’ the party, an’ the swine goes free. But ’tis all just accordin’ t’ how you looks at it; an’ as for _my_ taste, I’d be ashamed t’ come through fifty year o’ life on this coast alive.” “Ay, b’y?” the skipper inquired, with a curl of the lip. “It wouldn’t _look_ right,” drawled Tumm. The skipper laughed good-naturedly. “Now,” said Tumm, “you take the case o’ old man Jowl o’ Mad Tom’s Harbor—” “Excuse me, Tumm b’y,” the skipper interrupted. “If you’re goin’ t’ crack off, just bide a spell till I gets on deck.” Presently we heard his footsteps going aft.... * * * * *